Halloween

HALLOWEEKEND 2016, A MODERN POEM

All through the streets of Allston
Liquid-legged collegiates stumble to and fro,
Sexy kittens in frothy black lace
Pursued closely by Greek gods in togas
Modern Daphnes in laurel orchards.

 

And lying in pools of sticky jungle juice
Frozen Eggo waffles quietly thaw
While above their Elevenses make out with Luke Cages
But stranger things have happened than a Netflix Noah’s Ark.

 

If you listen closely, you can hear
The plaintive howling of Basics:
“Tessa, put on your devil horns!
NO ONE WILL GET THAT I’M AN ANGEL
Without those devil horns!”

 

Tessa Tessa Tessa echoes through the cracked asphalt.
And you wonder how Becca will deal
With being a lone angel amidst monsters;
A pre-Fall Lucifer in thigh-highs.

 

Costumes are reconfigured to accommodate the dredging mists
Skimpy fairies become swathed slutty trolls
California surfer boys become J.Crew-flanneled Dartmouth legacies
Leaving behind only Spartans who won’t sacrifice sex for comfort.

 

Candies scatter across coffee tables like teeth
Holdovers from childhood
Sugary hangovers before Tequila called our names
They’re snatched up, eaten ravenously to bring company
To the alcohol already taking up residence in stomachs

 

Mouths hover like moths over mouths
Brushing ears to be heard above the Monster Mash
Tap-dancing along shoulder blades
Stained white from ghostly makeup and red from fake blood

 

The morning light will reveal the cracks on
An unexfoliated face fully mimed-out
But in the warm orange glow, gilding the faces
Of sexy gym teachers and slutty RBGs
Everything is airbrushed and whole

 

As the night stretches thinner than H&M denim
The sidewalks become cluttered with lolling legs
Attached to a coterie of Suicide Squad villains
Harley Quinns and Jokers

 

The anonymity is appealing
The ability to be slutty, or scanty, or arrogant
I’m in a fuckboi tank top but blanketed in the clustered confidence
Of play-acting at something else
Something other

 

But protruding like the starkly contoured collarbones
Is the internal core
Tessa still won’t wear the devil horns
Becca will always ask
The arrogance, bolstered by alcohol and Party City, will submerge back
And pretend to be humble confidence
Ready to reemerge in the next Halloweekend
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Life, Rambles, Things Happening RN

IS MERCURY IN RETROGRADE?

I was going to try to write something funny; I mean, I’m always funny, but I was going to try to be purposefully funny. This post will be funny because I can’t not be funny/handsome, but that’s not the attempt. I guess this was a disclaimer? Omg, btw, isn’t is so weird when people put the emphasis on the first syllable in disclaimer, saying it as “disclaimer” rather than the regular, human “disclaimer” or at least putting a similar emphasis on each of the first two syllables (dis-claim-er)? God, I could make an entire blog post about syllabic emphasis but that would actually be torture for everyone.

I, and everyone I know (aka everyone in the whole world basically), have been in a real funk lately. Maybe it’s the complex tornado of Midterms and the impending Graduation and Jobs and Parents and Expectations. Maybe we all just have Mono and none of us realize it yet. Both, frankly, are equally possible.

Is Mercury in retrograde? Has anyone checked?

I’m doing Big Life Things—not jobs, things, mom, so don’t text me—but it’s weird and enterprising and scary.

I just saw Someone and I feel the vibrations ripple up my spine and tingle into my teeth. I swear to god, my body is breaking, because I feel emotions in the weirdest ways and also my left eyelid—it’s the top (omg such a Top™ thing to do to be so demanding)—has been intermittently twitching for the last week and a half. The possible motives for this Twitching© are: 1). Lack of sleep; 2). Too much caffeine; 3). My body is trying to throw off the shackles of a demon possession and my mind hasn’t realized it yet; 3b). My demon is trying to take control of my body to help me improve my grades and job prospects and my mind is self-sabotaging itself. End of list.

I’ve also been walking around campus and noticing people that I always viewed as single suddenly start to pair up, like there’s some sort of biblical flood that no one warned me about. I’m not…I’m not “bitter,” but my friend Nina had the right word: “Embittered.” Like these fucking nobodies are shacking up for the winter season?? YOU DON’T NEED A BOYFRIEND FOR THE WINTER, YOU JUST NEED A FUCKING BOYFRIEND PILLOW.

I think the world just needs to collectively decide to just date itself for a while, and be single!! Mother Gaia, ur too hot to settle down!

Also, I’ve decided that I’m wearing too much gray/not enough gay. Remember how I mentioned that my friend Nina—ugh this bitch is popping up twice in one post? She’s gonna get such an ego—said that I cockblock her because everyone assumes that I’m her boyfriend. Well APPARENTLY THAT’S LEGIT AND I’M DRESSING TOO STRAIGHT. I’ll admit, I’ve been wearing a lot of baggy, boyfriend-style jeans lately—DOESN’T THE FACT THAT I JUST CALLED THEM BOYFRIEND JEANS IMPLY THAT I’M SO ABSOLUTELY HOMOSEXUAL—and dad t-shirts, so I’m going to switch it up.

From now on, to let everyone know that I’m gay before I even speak—Nina: “Once people hear you, they know you’re gay.”—I’ve got a new uniform: acid-washed jeggings, a Legalize Gay American Apparel crop top, UGG boots and a clip-in side-ponytail. Yes, I’ll look like a mental patient, but I look like a gay mental patient, and that’s all I wanted.

The weather is becoming more wintry, so maybe that’s the reason for my more melancholic—if a collie become depressed, is it then technically a melan-collie?—meandering musings, or it might just be g*ddamn fucking Mercury. I should disclose that I do not know what “retrograde” means, but I like to picture it as meaning “when you get really into the ‘70s disco scene”. I don’t think that’s what it means, but I’m not giving up hope. Yet.

Also I changed the fonts for my titles and text. Do you like them? I’m trying to make the whole look a little cleaner, a little more “aesthetic.” I haven’t succeeded, but I feel one step closer. LMK WHAT U THINK.

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Life, Rambles, Things Happening RN

I’M HOT ENOUGH TO COCKBLOCK AND YOU KNOW ME, TIFFANY

Written after seeing a bunch of “If”s—you know. I saw a “Bulbasaur if he was, like, the hottest guy at CrossFit” and “Prince Harry if he was a Science teacher in The Breakfast Club or Robin Williams in Flubber.”  

I really don’t have a lot to write about today. I know it’s hard to judge my blogs when they have veritable content versus when they don’t, because everything is relative and eventually we’re all going to swirl into a black hole or be consumed by a supernova, but I have really no content today.

I’ve been basically out of the house from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m., and I went to the gym before that, so that’s about eight more hours of work than I’m used to. Usually I do one twenty-minute activity before taking a twelve-hour nap, and then repeating the cycle. I don’t get very much done in my day. I had two English classes, a meeting with a professor, a quick nip downtown to request court records because I’m a journalist and enterprising as fuck, and then a coffee hang with my friend. Then I just laid in bed for an hour and a half and now I’m cooking a shepherd’s pie. Wait, actually my day has been so eventful.

Since I don’t have, like, a cohesive blog, but things have been happening to me l8ly, I figured I could just do a stream of consciousness because WHO CARES, THE BAR IS SET SO LOW.

1). I went over to Nina’s house Sunday afternoon, recuperating from a long weekend, and we got underneath her covers in her bed—it’s cold and we’re college students—Grey Gardens-style, and did homework. I wrote a piece about Taylor Swift and listened to Frank Ocean, she read some law book (idfuckingk) and passive-aggressively requested that we change it to something without words.

There’s something about being fully clothed but snuggled in bed that’s actually the most intimate. Like, I’ve slept in the same bed with people but that’s when it’s like actually for sleeping. I don’t generally lounge in bed with friends, but this was super enjoyable. I brought sweatpants and lounging socks to really overstay my welcome.

2). Nina says that I cockblock her when we hang out. At first I was like, “Get over yourself,” until I realized that that meant that I’m hot/tall/masc/cute enough to appear to be her boyfriend. I try to remind her that if I were straight, she wouldn’t be attractive enough to date me (I’m a 9), but I think I’ve insulted her so much that she’s developed some sort of emotional callus to avoid my harsh words from sinking in. I need to start varying up my behavior towards her, so that—much like the Tasmanian Devil—you can never anticipate my moods.

3). I was talking with some friends about how annoying it is when people pretend not to recognize me. It’s happened twice in the same week, where someone has been like, “I feel like I recognize you,” and I have to scream, “YOU KNOW ME, TIFFANY.” It was no one named Tiffany, but I can’t—for legal reasons (?)—say who’s been doing it to me. My logic is that, even though we go to a school of 16,000 undergrad, I’m very distinctive. I’m 6’3, redheaded, and loud as fuck, so there’s no way you can avoid seeing me. And even if you don’t recognize my face, I scream enough in public that my voice has probably haunted your dreams on numerous occasions. So let’s not play these games, TIFFANY.

4). Today in my Pre-1860 American Lit class, I called Taylor Swift “petty as fuck, but not in a bad way.” I think it was probably as well-received as you would imagine a polarizing statement such as that could be. Previous things I have said in that class: “Sex and the City is an example of an epistolary novel” and “Have you guys ever seen Reign?” I don’t know if I’m doing well in that class.

5). I’m listening to Joanne, and enjoying it probably as much as one can with a high-concept album such as this. My favorite songs are “Diamond Heart,” “Grigio Girls,” “John Wayne,” and “Sinner’s Prayer.”

6). I was screaming about avocadoes in a coffee shop today, and how guacamole doesn’t give me the firmness I require from avocadoes for enjoyment, and I looked up to see a former classmate staring at me in shock/horror/amusement. SEE, I’M DISTINCTIVE.

Okay, nothing else has ever happened in my life, or anyone else’s, so I’m going to end the article here. Do I even have the right to call this, or any writing I’ve done, an article? God, that’s so demeaning to all of journalism. Whatever, I’m already the Kim Zolciak-Biermann of journalism.

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Politics

NASTY WOMEN GET SHIT DONE

Written while being inspired by a Nasty Woman!!! #ImWithHer

I haven’t said it in so many words on this blerg, but if you noticed, I haven’t really talked about the presidential election here. I write about it pretty consistently for The Odyssey, but by and large, I’ve just run out of things to say. Unless I want to pick up a different language, there are only so many ways I can say, “Trump is a horrific bigoted misogynist and why won’t you just vote for Hillary so we can get this over with?”.

But the third and final debate was held last night in Las Vegas—btw, it would’ve made the debate 125% better if they had walked out to Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas” because some classique Hillary “boogie-ing down” would’ve brought some much-needed levity to what would undoubtedly be 1.5 hours of pain for Trump, and us—and I feel like even though I might not have anything crazy-brilliant to add, I just want to talk about it.

This debate marks the third time that Hillary has won against Trump. Three-for-three, people—mark it down. And this debate, compared to the madness of the first one and the weirdness of the second one, was possibly the most honest I’ve seen both candidates. Trump was in fine form, accusing Clinton of paying people to get into fights at his rallies, accusing her of rigging the election, of controlling the media, of going into abortion clinics dragging almost-to-term pregnant mothers behind her and forcing them to get abortions.

First of all, let me just say this: If Hillary has done all these things—started ISIS, rigged the election, controlled the media—girl, I do not want to get on the wrong side of her. Let her have this election; she’s a certified witch. And I don’t mess with no witches.

But, of course, she has done none of these things. She supports late-term abortions on a case-by-case basis, when the life and health of the mother is at risk. Donald said that he would appoint a Supreme Court Justice to overturn Roe v. Wade. Hillary has not paid people to get violent at Trump’s rallies. Trump has encouraged violence at his rallies. HILLARY DID NOT CREATE ISIS. I REPEAT, HILLARY DID NOT FOUND THE TERRORIST GROUP ISIS.

This debate made it all the clearer that Trump is intensely focused on being nasty, rude and ignorant. When the candidates were asked—in two minutes—to outline their economic policies, Hillary talked about bolstering the middle class, creating a comprehensive education plan, creating larger taxes for the 1%. Trump used the first 1.5 minutes to talk about Japan, China and Saudi Arabia, before briefly mentioning free trade.

Trump kept twisting Hillary’s words. When she mentioned that she was for late-term abortions—with conditions—he said, “Hillary wants to rip your babies out in the ninth month, the day before they’re due.” Which, honey, is basically just a C-Section. So no, Hillary isn’t sacrificing to-term babies to get to the Presidency. When moderator Chris Wallace brought up a paid-for speech Hillary did in which she mentioned “open borders,” Trump jumped on it saying that she would let the borders loose and there would be hell. Hillary gently reminded everyone that the full quote refers to “open borders re clean energy grids.” So, like, remember context maybe??

At this point, I officially don’t care if you think Hillary is a crook or a war criminal or from the goddamn moon. These are the facts: Hillary is wildly competent, wickedly smart, and incredibly savvy. She has thirty years of experience. She is dedicated to her work. She has cohesive plans that she wants to put in place. She has the stamina to withstand having to be in the same room with Donald Trump.

Donald Trump has no plans. He relies on bigotry and violence. He has said that he will “surprise us” on whether or not he will accept the outcome of the election, i.e. he hasn’t decided on whether he is for democracy. He treats women horribly. He is volatile. He has no stamina. He is mean; he is childish. He is a bully.

So stop pretending that both are terrible outcomes. One person might be someone you might not like. But the other person will be horrific for our nation. I’m tired of your bullshit “apolitical” opinions. To not pick a side at this point is to pick the side of Donald Trump. Do you really want to be on that side of history?

I’m a journalist, so I’m supposed to be “impartial” and “unbiased” or whatever. I don’t care. I’m smart; I’ve looked into these issues. That also doesn’t matter. You should know by now who is going to steer our country in a healthy direction.

Stand on the side of that “nasty woman,” who has worked tirelessly, endured your shit and disrespect and judgment for thirty years, all for the love of the country that you so easily disregard while you whine. Imagine that kind of love: the kind of self-sacrificing that Hillary has done, the amount of hours she’s logged, out of a desire to be a public servant. Other opinions aside, you can’t deny that. You can’t deny her deep love and devotion to our country.

I want that kind of perseverance in the Oval Office. I stand with her, fully and forever. I stand behind her, and I’ll follow her, because I trust in the direction that she will take us. Please, join me. Register. Vote. Support. Be passionate. Care.

*****

And to end on a light note, let’s focus on the true leader of America that’s already been crowned.

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Halloween, Humor, Life

LIKE YOU HALLOMEAN IT: COSTUMES, NOSTALGIA & I HATE A LEAF

Written while getting increasingly erratic and jealous of a photo I posted on Instagram of a leaf. It’s somehow gotten more likes than my other most recent photo—me, looking thin—and I actually couldn’t make up how crazy it’s making me. IT’S A FUCKING LEAF, PPL. IS SHE HOTTER THAN ME? IS THAT WHAT IT IS?! WHAT DOES THIS LEAF HAVE THAT I DON’T? IT’LL BE DEAD AND CRISPY IN TWO DAYS. If I were smarter, I would stop giving this leaf promo, but my rage-envy is giving me tunnel vision.

Halloween always stresses me out. As a kid, it was the blinding anxiety of the whole night being without rules. As a gaydult, it’s shifted to the crippling anxiety of trying to find the perfect Halloween costume. Halloween is Gay Christmas (Christmas is Gay Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving is just Gay, and the Super Bowl is Gay Arbor Day—no one cares about it and only Beyoncé makes it better). Also, Labor Day is the same in both Gay and Straight.

I can’t remember if I did anything for Halloween in high school. Granted, as evidenced by the photos I’ve been looking at lately, in high school I was cosplaying as a cadaver 24/7 (I was thin, you guys, and not “chic” thin or even “are you okay” thin (my favorite kind of thin) but like “gangly as fuck” thin, which is never a good look). I’m pretty lean now, and it’s only now that I realize there’s a solid difference between “thin” and “lean.”

I thought I was such hot shit in high school—omg the fucking ego I had—and now looking bad, I was literally all bad skin and mile-long limbs and HORRIFIC taste in clothing (I wore decorative scarves all the time). I’m on such a tangent but thinking about how no one gave me an intervention makes me so mad.

Anywayanyway, what should I be for Halloween for my senior year—the capstone four years in the making?

Freshman year of college

I was a “dead pirate” but everyone just thought I was “beat up Where’s Waldo.” Nothing against Where’s Waldo but definitely not what I was going for.

Sophomore year of college

I decided to go as a pun. BIG MISTAKE BECAUSE NO ONE GETS PUNS ON HALLOWEEN. I was “Dick In A Box.” The idea for the costume centered around the fact that I had this outfit that I looked so cute in, and I also had a cardboard box. I hung the box around me from spooky skull suspenders and then put a name-tag that said “Hi! I’m Richard” on the box. I’m not even exaggerating when I say that NO ONE GOT IT. Was I too nuanced? Should I have said “Hi I’m Dick”? What did I do wrong?!

Junior year of college #LondonEdition

The elusive, sexy Halloweekend. On Friday night, I went on a bar crawl through Shoreditch and dressed as Sexy Dead Lumberjack (L.L.Bean boots, short-shorts, red flannel unbuttoned to my navel, gray beanie, and a “slash” across my throat in red lipstick). Saturday I was supposed to be Bob Belcher from Bob’s Burgers, but after my RA thought I was simply in my pajamas, I changed. I did my face in skull makeup (free hand) and drew a tombstone on a white t-shirt, scrawling above it “My Dreams.” I was “My Dreams Are Dead.” Pretty funny and people moderately got it. The highlight of this night was eating duck confit and waffles forty floors above misty London at four a.m.

But so far, I haven’t thought of anything that’s really grabbing me. Here are some potential (actual potential, not like “joke for the blog”) options that I’ve been mulling over:

Fuckboi/No Homo

There’s a subtle difference between a “fuckboy” and a “fuckboi” because a “fuckboi” is secretly gay. Me and my “friend” Nina* have this long-running joke where we morph into what I like to think of as the gay fratty version of Ben Affleck and Matt Damon and just riff off each other. Just two dudes who think it’s not gay to fall into the loving embrace of another man. The kind of guys who say “A hole is a hole” and “I’m not gay, but I would totally bottom for Tom Brady.” Just str8boi things.

*I fucking hate that nine-fingered bitch.

Sexy Dentist

I think there has been no greater gift to humanity than the “Let’s Turn Regular Things Sexy” trend. I mean, fire is a pretty close second, but seriously this tops that. As a “joke” (where I float an actual idea but clothe it in humor to avoid being embarrassed) the possibility of being a “Sexy Baby” but the reaction from my focus groups was (probably rightfully) almost unanimous disgust. So that goes in the “Maybe” pile.

But I think being a Sexy Dentist could be hilarious because I love doing the whole “Unsexy Things Becoming Sexy but Doing Unsexy Things.” Like I do this dance at the club called “Sad Stripper” where it’s just me pussy-popping while crying. So as Sexy Dentist, I could wear a too-tight scrubs shirt, short shorts, maybe a mouth thingy, and then just stick my fingers in people’s unsuspecting mouths and ask them questions about school.

Like, a long time goes by.

Okay, so apparently I didn’t have a third potential option, and instead of brainstorming funny ideas just for the sake of having a trio (threesomes are so hard to coordinate, I’ve learned) I went back through my blog and read funny posts. You guys, I was actually funny. What’s happened? Anyway, I can’t even think of a third choice, so let’s just say that those are my two major options. It’s hard thinking of things to make funny. I mean, I’m not funny, so I wouldn’t actually know. I imagine it’s hard though.

Btw, here’s my playlist for Fall 2k16!!!! Last year I put up my Christmas playlist, but I made one for the season of the Dying of the Leaves!! Check it out if you want.

#spookyspooky

#ISTHATLEAFHOTTERTHANME

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Humor, Life

THE ADVENTURE OF A CUP OF COFFEE, AND ALL THAT ENTAILS

It’s a harsh reality when you have to adjust your Starbucks order to accommodate your sparse resources. Instead of getting a latte—apparently the Westchester County of drinks—I had to dial it down to just a coffee—the drink of the common people. But maybe it isn’t so bad; I could use a reality check. Lord knows I’m delusional enough as is.

I feel a sense of earthy pride when I tell the barista my order. He doesn’t even have to go to the fancy milk steamer. My order comes straight from the tap (tap?) into a simple, regular cup. I’m an Everyman; a Jim Halpert. I take my coffee simple and my laughs loud. I picture this as my new life: grande hot coffee (soon I’ll skip to just say “medium” because where I’ll be from, we don’t use Italian), red flannel with raggedly-worn cuffs, and a job at the local paper. I’ll have a boxer—no, no, a border collie; something large and fluffy that’ll look good in front of my fireplace. I’ll make friends with the locals, say things like, “Life runs a little slower here,” and put buckets under my leaks because I don’t bother fixing the roof because hey, what does it matter in the end?

As the barista swings around and puts my new life—conveniently $2.45—onto the counter, the girl in front of me, who ordered a pumpkin scone (city folk) and a latte (patrician) grabs the scone from the other barista’s hand and—thinking that my free love java is hers—grabs it and makes like the Olsen twins in New York Minute (fast). I witness the life I could have crumble like a vision board that got caught in the rain.

“Um, that’s mine,” I say a little sharply, a holdover from my present/past life, where I’m a quick-talking city Grinch. Once I get that coffee, I’ll be a molasses-drawling, straight-leg-jean-wearing regular, but that bitch is trying to make a move on my new life, and I won’t stand for that.

“Oh, sorry,” she says with the air of someone who doesn’t care about my hazy Seattle dreams.

Once I got it, I realized I made the mistake of not asking for some room for milk. What can I say? I’m a latte guy. I begin to pour half-and-half—I randomly choose amongst the various dairy products, usually whichever one seems the coolest—before realizes that the amount of room left in the cup will only allow for a “Barely tolerable gray-ish” amount of milk, when I need a “Swaddled in a rich tan hue” amount of milk. With the precision of an Olympic gymnast, I slowly lift the cup to my lips. Mind you, I’m in a public Starbucks, very obviously taking up time at the accoutrements counter.

As the cup nears my lips, my eyes lock onto a friend/general human acquaintance who is 10% cooler than I am and the jolt of fear trilling down my spine causes the cup to lurch against my mouth, reminding me that the milk has done nothing for the scalding lava that lurks under the docile facsimile of coffee. I burn my tongue, flinch wildly, and cause the liquid to splash over the edge, boiling down my fingers and onto the counter.

Defeated, maimed and embarrassed, I try to—quickly as possible—pour small amounts of my coffee into the trash can until I can pour enough half-and-half into it to salvage it. After that, and a heart-achingly large dose of sugar, I replace the cardboard sleeve to disguise my dance with devil.

Trying to appear casual—I’m wearing Adidas for fuck’s sake—I casually pretend to ignore my friend/genial homo sapiens, while obviously knowing that he has moved up precisely 3.2 spots in line. He reaches out and taps me and I do the whole, “Oh didn’t see you there!” routine. I saw him; you saw him. We’re all liars here.

He tells me about his work, his class, his upcoming nap. I’m assuming, actually, because I wasn’t listening and am instead wondering, Did I spill any coffee on my shoe? I can’t look now, that would be too obvious. Ugh, it’s leather. White leather. Brown coffee on white leather. White leather sounds a little porny, like the BDSM sister of Whitesnake. White Snake? I bet it did. I can’t believe it, while going, “Uh-huhh, mhmmm” like Frankenstein’s monster.

He asks me about my day, I give him the truncated version of the truncated version and decide to disclose my little dip into Hades’ hellfire. He laughs, the sound slipping through the neat gap in his teeth. I’m making it sound cute, like “Oh I spilt some coffee. How relatable,” rather than the practically Medea-inflicted pain it actually was (great myth, Medea, if you’re looking for a fun quippy read).

Later, in the class for which I originally procured the coffee (three hours long + a me whose main job this last week has been convincing myself that I have ADD), I notice that the spillage left a mocha-hued tie-dye print all over the cover. So it didn’t matter that I changed the sleeve. The proof was in the pudding.

By the way, I had a fucking burnt tongue for two hours afterward.

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