It’s here! It’s here! Christmas is here. And as happy as we all are, I know that we’re all desperately sad that Holidannys 2015™ has come to an end. I know that you’ll miss me posting every day, but take heart in knowing that, like, I’m not dying and you need to back off and not be so smothering. God.
This Holidannys has really tested my strength, my beauty, my resolve, and my blog-writing abilities. Obviously I did amazingly, but I’m glad that it’s completed. Now we can go back to our regularly scheduled blog posts.
However, there are going to be a few changes. Or at least one that I can think of; I think I’ll continue doing Celebrity Sundays. They’re fun as fuck to write, and don’t really require a lot of additional willpower. So, if it’s okay with you guys—just joking, you have no opinion in the matter—I’ll up the number of posts to three times a week. For right now, I’ll still do my Monday and Thursday posts, but if I decide that I hate writing posts Sunday and Monday, then I might #ShakeItUp.
Me accepting your praise for finishing Holidannys.
But moving away from the boring logistical stuff. CHRISTMAS IS HERE. As I’m typing this, I’m sitting in my Christmas pajamas, listening to slightly oppressive Christmas choir music with a mug of tea and an already-consumed gingerbread man.
I hope that everyone—regardless of if you celebrate the holiday or not—have a nice day today. Even though it’s kind of hot today, it’s still Christmas and I’ll still be dressing like it’s cold because I have a very specific #holigay outfit planned and I have no time for adjusting for global warming.
I hope that if you hate the holidays, this regular Friday is cool and fun and nice. And if you love the holidays, then congrats—this is your Olympics. And if your family doesn’t “get” you this holiday season, know that I get you. We’re two peas in a pod, but maybe two pods? Idk, one pod just seems very cramped. No, it’s not because you smell. Why would you say that? I mean, now that you brought it up…
I want to wish a very Merry Christmas to all of my friends—home friends, study abroad friends, college friends—and my family—extended family, my sisters and parents, my secret Canadian mistress and our kids—and to you guys, my fans. No, no, no—don’t say anything. You’re my fans. Let me have this holiday fantasy.
I’ll be sad to see Holidannys go, but she was a fun ole bitch and I know that I haven’t seen the last of her. She’ll rise from her grave like the Ghost of Christmas Past and I’m Scrooge but young and hot. So, from Holidannys and I, have a nice Christmas and see you next year!
IT’S CHRIMMAS Y’ALL! MERCY CHRUSMAST! Okay, so it’s not. It’s Christmas Eve. And I was on Twitter, and someone I followed had retweeted a bunch of (hopefully fake) Meninist accounts with the hashtag: “Christmas Adam!” So I’m obviously converting to whatever religion that is. Christmas (St)eve.
I think that Christmas Eve is always the best day of the Christmas season. It’s that breathy anticipation of Christmas, without the realization that Christmas is actually over that I always get on Christmas Day. Christmas Eve is Kris Kringle presents and fireplaces and Christmas Mass. And my dad bought a boatload of appetizers and I’m high-key excited.
I’ll be so sad when the season is over. I’ve been getting into the “spirit” for a month and a half, essentially, and it’ll be sad when it’s over. January is a very un-spirit-y month, and there aren’t really any good holidays in the winter/spring/new year. There’s Valentine’s Day—which is more like “You’re single and eating Ben & Jerry’s on your bed” Day—and Arbor Day and St. Patrick’s Day—which is “Watching other people desecrate my heritage and get drunk during the day”—and then…Labor Day? Like, are there even any other holidays?
But obviously let’s not focus on that. Even though it’s like 70 degrees in New York, let’s snuggle into the Christmas spirit. I’m sitting in my living room surrounded by the aura of presents and—oh my god my Christmas tree is crooked. Like, so crooked. Is it going to fall over? Oh my god, Deborah. That’s the tree’s name—Deborah. Deborah go home, you’re drunk.
Since this is the last “Thoughtful Thursday” of Holidannys 2015, I feel like I can touch upon the end of the year, even though this won’t be the last blog before 2016. I’m kind of excited for 2015 to be over, but not in a bad way. This year was actually super-amazing, and I’m kind of excited for it to be over and for 2016 to begin and be amazing too. Is that weird? That because it was good that I’m glad it’s over? 2016 is going to be such a ball3r year—I’ll turn 21, I’ll be a senior in college (oh my god I just threw up in my mouth writing that), I’ll be hotter than ever, I’ll finally learn how to properly say “February.” It’ll be truly amazing. I’ll eat so many burgers.
I think I went into 2015 with extremely low expectations; and now I’m going into 2016 with extremely high expectations. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I’m a natural pessimist, so I’m always low-expectations-y, but I actually have a good feeling about 2016. Other than having to write out 2016—such a spiky number, not like that fat round goddess 2015—I really don’t see how this year couldn’t be good.
*then falls into a well and is trapped for six months*
so I hope that you all have an amazing Christmas. I hope that you get fun presents and get to spend time with people who love you and who you love. That may be your family, your friends, your parole officer. I hope you don’t do that thing where you eat like shit because it’s the “holidays” and 2016 is going to be a “new year, new me.” Do that thing where you eat like shit unapologetically and then decide to work out because you want to; not because January says so. I hope you have a good “Oh this is exactly what I wanted” face when you don’t get exactly what you wanted. I hope that you get what you wanted; I hope you get what you need.
So that title is misleading: this post isn’t going to be about toddlers in Louboutins. However, that’s totally the title of my new memoir, Toddlers In Louboutins: The Danny McCarthy and Kris Jenner Story.
I was walking in the Westchester Mall, which is the iconic mall of Westchester County. It has everything from Urban Outfitters to Gucci, and I saw something that literally made me go WTF.
I saw two 15-year-old girls walk out of Louis Vuitton. UM. EM. HENNY. Why are you walking out of a luxury store? You have braces. You can’t have braces and a purse that’s worth more than my life. Rude.
And then I was in line at Urban Outfitters and this girl in front of me with her Louis Vuitton Speedy bag was returning something. And she was being really annoying and I wasn’t even actually listening but I wanted to go up to her and ask when she got that bag: before or after she sold her Claire’s soul to the devil.
I’m obviously extremely invested in celebrity culture, so it shouldn’t be surprising to me when children make me feel like a literal plebeian. But there’s something about seeing people in real life—in my own county—who are living life large.
Also, it’s so like eye-roll that these 15-year-olds were in Louis Vuitton. Like I literally don’t understand it. Were you lost? were you looking to buy something? How do you have even the knowledge of luxury?
But as soon as it’s on TV, I’m beyond okay with it. I’m actually for it. I was watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Lisa Vanderpump literally got her husband two miniature horses for his birthday. Who the fuck needs one miniature horse, let alone two?? Like, also, what are you gonna do with them? You can’t ride them. You can’t boil them for glue. They’re just gonna wander around in her garden and…graze? Do horses graze?
Obviously my fave example of opulence is the Kardashians, and in the grand style of Kardashians, here are a few things I would buy if I had Vanderdashian money:
1). A gold toilet.
2). Diamond forks.
3). A personal assistant who lets everyone know that they are not to look me in the eye.
4). A peacock barbeque.
5). Peacock coat.
6). A trainer/dietician/shaman.
7). An assistant for holding my car keys.
8). An assistant for my trainer/dietician/shaman.
I would love to be so rich that people were afraid of me. Like, I wouldn’t do anything to them. I just want them to know that I could. Also I want to have at least two bodyguards. I won’t need them. I just want two former-bouncers/former-Marines in black t-shirts and bald heads and no necks who just hover behind me and make me look especially thin. Also I want a fur coat to drape over my very frail and thin shoulders.
Essentially, I want to be a boy Olsen twin. A Boylsen.
I’m been watching a lot of Bravo reality TV, so I’m not entirely focused. Omg did y’all see Star Wars? Does anyone want to see it with me? I love talking during movies, so be prepared for that. Happy Christmas Eve Eve!
It’s almost 2016, and you’re looking back on 2015 and realizing that all you’re taking with you as you dive into the new year is a couple extra pounds and the sinking realization that you’re twenty years old and more than halfway done with college. So, logically, you’re freaking out a little bit. But you’re in luck, because we’re all in that shitstorm together, and here’s what you’re going to do.
You’re going to make a list of everything you want to accomplish. Big, small, and everything in between. You’re going to make goals that are actually accomplishable; you’re not going to write “Go to Mars” or “Overcome all your insecurities” because that’s unrealistic and prone to failure. Set small goals: “Get published somewhere” or “Go outside of your comfort zone in fill in the blank.” Make it relatable, make it accomplishable.
Write it out. Physically. Not on a laptop. Not on your phone. Get out a journal or a piece of paper and curl your millennial fingers around a physical pen and write it out. I don’t know why, but there’s something satisfying about the permanency of physical paper. It might seem more transient, but laptops are so easy to hit click, click, click, and delete things from your list and make it seem like it never existed.
Set big, massive goals. Body goals, internship goals, love goals. Keep them in your mind and operate with the mindset of striving towards something. It can be cool to strive, and having that massive, life goal hanging over your head doesn’t have to be an anvil waiting to drop. It can motivate. It can inspire.
Set goals for the year, but also for the next year after that. And after that. In the next few years, you slightly chunky twenty-year-old, you’ll be out of college and moving on to bigger and better things. You’ll be in jobs or graduate programs or the army or a parent. You’ll be starting crap-paying internships and starter jobs, and living in a small apartment with your new roommates, Cockroach and Student Debt. So now, when you’re optimistic and dumb, set massive goals and little goals to keep you going when things seem very #dark.
Set metaphysical goals. Set out to be nicer to other people, to yourself. Set a goal to say one positive thing to yourself for a week. Then a month. Then six months. By the end of the list, try to imagine the kind of person you want to be. Brave. Smart. Educated.
Set bucket list goals to benefit other people. Volunteer. Register to vote. Donate. We’re dumb, smart, naïve, opinionated, idealistic, realistic. We are twenty, and we are so capable of greatness. Create a 2016 bucket list to rival the gods.
Be educated. Be bold. Be brave. Take risks. Fuck ‘em. Treat yourself. Try something new. Reach out. Ask for help. Be the one people ask for help. 2016 could be great, or it could be another year that you write off. Start the list. Be a ball3r.
How do I get the life of Ina Garten, Hamptons house and a Jewish husband and all that, without having to go through her career of a White House budget analyst and cooking store mogul? Ponder that while you read this post and then message me privately. I would be very curious to know.
It’s Miscellaneous Monday on da blog, so I’m just going to ramble about the various goings-on of my life. Prepare for glamour. Pause for chic. Buckle in for disappointment.
Okay, so I wrote that paragraph and then immediately sunk back into Ina’s world and am now watching her make carrot salad. She’s already done a coq au vin, a chocolate cheesecake, stuffed Cornish hens, garlic mashed potatoes, mashed turnips, and made an entire chocolate wedding cake. I think her show counts more in the science fiction realm, rather than cookery, because literally how is she not 1,000 pounds? And how is Jeffrey not dead from consuming so much chocolate ganache?
literally me typing this blog.
I was watching while I was wrapping presents, and despite not having a ton of presents to wrap, it took me a while. I’m not a great wrapper—or a great rapper—so it’s a process. And Ina really makes me move slowly, as slowly as molasses dripping onto a freshly made Belgian waffle.
I’m also moving slowly because I started back up at the gym this week. I’ve done a legs-and-abs workout, a triceps-and-shoulders workout, and a back-and-biceps workout, and I literally feel like I am about to die. I forgot how sore you can be, and it’s been almost two months since I really worked out in any solid capacity. But I think I was completely ready to get back into the swing of things, even though not working out gives you so much free time to watch Netflix and eat ice cream. Like, truly, that’s all I did.
I went to the mall today—let’s go to the mall!—and I was shopping and I kind of hate all shop workers. Like, I know that it’s your job to say hi to me and ask me if I need help, but I hate you. I have to do the same thing; I get it, we all work in the service industry, but please let me browse these LUSH bath bombs in peace. I don’t need you to draw attention to the fact that I’ve been deciding between two different facial cleansers for the last ten minutes. We both know what’s been happening.
And the thing I noticed a lot is that they wanted my email a lot. Usually, they don’t ask, but this time they did, and I was so put off that I just gave it to them. But why do you need it? Why can’t I just buy this lotion in peace, and then slink off to Urban Outfitters to secretly check the sales, even though Urban is awful humanitarian-wise and I shouldn’t give them my business?
So gymming and shopping for Christmas presents—that’s really all I’ve done. Oh, and I keep doing this thing where I’ll dress like a human being for 1-2 hours when I go outside, and then as soon as I’m back in my house, I get into my Primark sweatpants and lie on the floor of my room. I have a bed. I just don’t use it. Right now I’m leaning against an armchair. Only after an hour of doing this with a sore butt did I think it might be a possibility for me to go into the armchair. But that’s too much work.
Everything is futile and everything will be sucked into the ether eventually!
Another week has come and gone, and we’re inching closer and closer to a collective death because eventually the universe will stop expanding. But while we’re still here, let’s hunker down on this chilly Sunday evening with a good, ole-fashioned pop culture roundup! And we’re starting with:
1). “Adele Live in New York” premiered on NBC:
The special was filmed on November 17th, but the collective weeping of a nation occurred on its premiere on Monday. The pop star, or as Jimmy Fallon introduced her “a once in a generation artist,” was amazing, as per usual. The set list included songs from all three albums. I think my favorite part about Adele doing this televised shows is the fanfare of it all. No other artist, especially one as young as she is, could inspire such fervor for a television event. She has become mythic, and that’s because she is a once in a generation artist. We have pop powerhouses like Beyoncé and Katy Perry, but no one is as revered as Adele, given how little she appears on social media and in the public eye.
All in all, I love Adele.
How Much You Should Care: 5/5 Adele Hits
2). Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them:
The trailer for the Harry Potter spinoff was released, and it’s cute, and I’ll probably watch it online illegally, and I’ll enjoy it. I’m not a huge fan of spinoffs, especially about Harry Potter. It’s like sacrilege, almost. It feels wrong to make a spinoff on such a classic part of my childhood, but I guess money talks. But yeah it looks good. Also Eddie Redmayne is on fire this year.
How Much You Should Care: 3.5/5 Lost Dragons
3). Kourtney Kardashian & Justin Bieber
If this rumor were ever proven to be true, I would quit social media forever and renounce pop culture and do “serious journalism” like my mom wants me to. Why on earth would Kourtney break up with Scott Disick, her party-hard boyfriend, and then, as a 36-year-old mother of three, date a literal fuckboi like Justin Bieber? This rumor needs to be squashed. But Justin, call me? Also Kourtney, call me?
How Much You Should Care: 2/5 Kylie Lip Kits
4). JOHN KRASINSKI ON THE COVER OF MEN’S HEALTH:
So if you’ve talked to me, ever, at all, for more than five minutes, you know that John Krasinski’s Jim Halpert was literally what awakened my sexuality. I hadn’t come out when I started watching The Office, but even then I knew that there was a reason why I hated Pam’s guts so much. Anyway John, my perfect human, posed on the cover of Men’s Health magazine, all in-shape and beautiful for his new role as a Navy Seal, I think? Idk, I couldn’t read. He struck me illiterate. But he is so ripped and beautiful and makes me feel things. I would raise his daughter. We could be such a happy family if Emily Blunt would just leave.
How Much You Should Care: 6/5 Jim Halpert Shrugs To Camera
An obsessed fan broke into Kris Jenner’s palace—I mean, “house”—and managed to get face-to-face with the Kween in her office. Apparently he got past her security team by saying that he was a part of the group setting up holiday decorations. Obviously he wasn’t, and Kris could sense that he wasn’t a part of the krew and had him thrown out. Then, she had her entire security team fired for gross negligence—same, girl. Kanye West stepped in with his own security team—where were they all this time??—and put them on the clock. He, Kim, North, and baby SAINT WEST live at Kris’s house, and Kim and Saint were actually in the house while the fan was present. Spooky.
How Much You Should Care: 4/5 Kris Jenner Cookbooks
7). Lady Gaga’s “Till It Happens To You”:
Lady Gaga performed “Till It Happens To You”—her original song for the documentary Hunting Ground, which details the status of rape cases on college campuses and the women who took a stand against their collegiate establishments—at the Billboard Women in Music Awards. I kind of love Lady Gaga in this new direction of her life, and I love how she is using her celebrity and personal story to raise awareness about the disgustingly negligent attitudes that college campuses take when prosecuting on issues of rape. Brava, Gaga. Brava.
How Much You Should Care: 5/5 ARTPOPs
8). Tina Fey and Amy Poehler:
Tina and Amy—queens, g0ddesses—co-hosted SNL this Saturday, and it was everything I needed and more. They parodied Bad Blood, brought back “Bronx Beat,” played Hillary Clinton and Sarah Palin, and even manned the Weekend Update desk. They give me a lot of feels, and I’m currently re-watching Parks & Recreation for the billionth time, so I feel personally proud of Amy. And since 30 Rock is my all-time favorite show, I feel a similar pride for Tina. So, basically, I did this.
How Much You Should Care: 5/5 Sarah Palin’s “I Can See Russia From My House”s
And that’s this week! You may be wondering, “Why is it only 9 this week and not 10?” and I’ll answer with, “Why are you so obsessed with numbers? Size doesn’t matter. Content does. Creativity does. We are obsessed with high-production and mass quantity, and our consumeristic capitalism is destroying good American imagination.” Also, it’s been a slow pop culture news week, and I’ve been traveling.
I went to the gym today, so I simultaneously think that I am dying and also that I am the strongest person that has ever existed. My arms feel like jell-o, and I’ve negotiated that into spending the entire day in bed, watching Parks and Recreation and wearing sweatpants. That, however, is a full-time job, so I don’t feel bad in the slightest.
And my room, which has a certain cavelike allure since it’s at the back corner of my house, is illuminated, chicly, by several strings of fairy lights. Every year, since I was a kid, I have put Christmas lights over my bed and around my room. When I was a little kid, it was so I could read after my mom made me turn off my bedside lamp. When I grew up, and learned that reading is for dorks—TV rules!!!!1!—they became purely for aesthetics.
(I’m lying about reading. Reading rules. Also, I did the fairy lights because I was shit-scared of the dark as a child and medium-adult.)
This year, I had put Christmas lights up in August to make my room feel Tumblr-y, so when I came home from London I plugged them in. They are warm and inviting and remind me of Christmas and hot cocoa and freezing my ass off.
And even though this year the temperature isn’t exactly North Pole-ish, I love having Christmas traditions to fall back on.
One of my fam’s favorite Christmas traditions is Secret Santa, or Kris Kringle, or whatever else you want to call it. We put our names into a hat, pick out a slip of paper, and buy a present for that person. This year I have my (name redacted for Kris Kringle purposes) and now I have to buy them a present. We exchange the Secret Santa presents on Christmas Eve, and then we get our Christmas pajamas.
I totally thought that Christmas pajamas were a thing that only we did, but “apparently” it’s a “popular thing to do.” Idk, it feels like y’all are jacking my family swag. After we get into our pajamas, which I will take off for actual sleeping because I sleep like I’m about to get robbed and need to be ready to flee—running shorts and a t-shirt—we take a family drive around the neighborhood to look at the luminaries.
Luminaries are brown paper lunchbags that have been filled with sand. They are lined along the sidewalks and a candle is lit inside each one. We have been getting lit for many years, and it is so ~dope~ and one of my favorite things. Then we drive around the neighborhood, judging everyone else’s Christmas decorations. Some are chic. Some are tragic. Note to everyone: blue Christmas tree lights are never a good idea. Shut it down.
And in the morning, we eat cinnamon rolls and open presents and get jealous over which child will be the most favored by Santa that year. Then we get dressed and go to family parties and then I go on Twitter. It’s a Christmas miracle.
Even though I’m pretty sure I never believed in Santa—I don’t know why, he just always seemed fishy—I’m really excited for Christmas because I love presents sooo much. And also, like, giving them or w/e.
And also, even though we are 23, 20, and 18, we still leave out milk and cookies for Santa, and my mother will still sign certain gifts from Santa. Even though she doesn’t even bother switching up her handwriting. It truly is the most wonderful time of the year. Except for my birthday, which is basically a national holiday.
Sometimes writing everyday is hard. I know I make it look effortless and easy and chic, but sometimes it’s a real witch-with-a-b to think of topics all day erryday. So even though today is not the last Friday of the year, it’s the second-to-last Fashion Friday of the season—omg stop queen ily—so here is an in-depth, scientific analysis of all the fashion trends—every single one—of the last year.
LOVED: the early ‘00s influence
Watching so many angsty teens in flannels and high ponytails makes me feel like a kid again, watching All That.
LOATHED: those plastic chokers
There’s homage, and then there’s carnage. Please, girls and gays, stop wearing those plastic, expandable chokers. Let some things die.
LOVED: white sneakers
There’s just something so chic about a pair of white sneakers. They go with almost everything and kind of class up your outfit.
LOATHED: cleaning those white sneakers
I bought a pair of white Converse high-tops like five years ago, so by the time the white sneaker trend was in full swing, mine looked like they had gone through The Amazing Race. I tried to re-bleach them, but that didn’t really work out.
LOVED: Athleisure in general.
Socially acceptable gymwear? Adidas track pants? I’m so down. I’m like 50/50 on joggers—I own two pairs, I’m such a fake—but in general, I’m a big fan of athleisure.
LOATHED: Health goth.
We get it, you’re angsty and love wearing oversized black shirts with large, white Adidas logos. Please go away now.
LOVED: Boxy cuts.
I think boxy cuts are awesome and really frame the silhouette in a great way. Plus, they—for guys at least—create a broad upper body and narrower lower body, which gives you more of a V-shape than you might normally have.
LOATHED: Those longline t-shirts.
They don’t work on Justin Bieber; they don’t work on you. Really longline stuff just looks bad, in my opinion. I’m a total fan of elongating the torso a little, but do it on a stretcher, the old-fashioned way.
LOVED: Olive greens and khaki.
I look really good in olive greens and khakis. I think it’s because my coloring is so light, that sometimes really black-blacks and dark colors make me look ghostly. Neutral-ish dark tones have the same sick contrast, without giving me Caspar le Ghost feels.
Just because I haven’t found something in camouflage that suits me and/or makes me look cool and not self-conscious. Also, like, who are you hiding from??
LOVED: Man jewelry.
I can’t rock it, but I totally admire it. I have complete sausage fingers, so rings scare the shit out of me, but I had a roommate—Sebastien—who was so good at wearing tasteful rings. Maybe one day I’ll invest in the Big and Tall version of some cool rings and rock that.
Please. Stop. It’s worse than that time that I wore a newsboy cap. It was just once, but it was such a rough time for everyone.
To wrap up, I’ll detail my 2015 fashion journey.
Lumberjack prep–> Heterosexual athleisure–> Summertime (aka tank tops)–> Good-boy bad-boy flannels–> Darkness, a memoir–> Angst, an autobiography–> Sweatpants, a history.
First thought: you would think that the participial tense of “binge” would be “binging” but that’s its own word—I think—so I think I’ll stick with “bingeing,” even though that looks as wrong as me in spray-on denim—unflattering on all the wrong places and very misleading.
Bingeing is an entirely 21st century phenomenon, and it’s amazing. If you live under a rock—why?—bingeing is watching a television series from beginning to end—or whatever is on Netflix—in a short, tense, showerless amount of time. Christmas break is the perfect time to really settle in for a good binge.
But what are the criteria for an excellent television binge? Let’s discuss each criterion (this sentence wasn’t really necessary, but I just wanted to write out “criterion.” Such a fun word! All right, on with the blog!)
A good binge should be a show with a continuous plotline throughout the series. Give me a The Office or a The Vampire Diaries over a It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia or The Simpsons. I think that non-plot-driven shows, your run of the mill picaresque production, are not binge-worthy for one very simple reason. No plot means no character development, and no character development means that you can’t become fully invested. No one wonders about what Homer Simpson will do next. He’ll keep being Homer Simpson. But watching Elena Gilbert turn from boring good-girl to amoral vampire is interesting; it’s compelling.
So Criterion Numero Uno: Plot-driven.
I think a good binge should be either completely fun-filled—your Parks and Recreation—or very intense and dramatic—your Broadchurch or How To Get Away With Murder. Anything in between—a The Good Wife or Vikings—are good for week-to-week entertainment, but I need to be titillated and enthralled if I’m going to move out of my cocoon to press “yes” on the “Still Watching?” button in Netflix. Netflix, side note—assume I’m always still watching.
So Criterion Numero Dos: Titillating television.
Ideally, an excellent binge is something that has finished its series run. Nothing is more unfortunate than finishing all the seasons on Netflix and having to wait for a few months to then watch week-by-week. Bingeing shows are so hard to switch to a weekly watch. It’s like getting your teeth pulled. You’re used to the sweet, addictive softness of anesthesia; now you’re using a local anesthetic that hasn’t quite kicked in yet.
Criterion Numbah Three: Your show must be finito; finished; donezo.
And lastly, your binge should be something you’re going into with fresh eyes. Yeah, someone might have told you that it’s a good show, but go in with no preconceived notions. I started bingeing Game of Thrones because someone told me there was a ton of titties and man-butts, but it actually has a very enthralling plotline. Who knew? Part of the fun of an amazing binge is the “Oh my god, what’s going to happen next?” That feeling, that “I’m clutching my blanket in anticipation” feeling? Yeah that goes away when you Wikipedia the plotline to season four. So don’t do that. Give yourself that treat.
Criterion Nummy-Nums Quartet: Now you see me, now you don’t—aka don’t Google it, idiot.
So there you have it. We have discussed, dissected, and debated bingeing. Just kidding—we didn’t do any of that. You just read this blog. It was good though, right?
Another fun binge: reading through all of Holidannys™ (Maybe? Idk?) and then bingeing all of my blogs ever. There’s almost one hundred of them, so it should take you about twenty minutes. Total.
So originally I wrote a WTF post about hating birds and cats, and then I went out for a few hours and realized that that is the biggest WTF of all. And I realized that I’m about to leave my study abroad—I’m writing this on Tuesday—and I think that’s the biggest WTF ever.
WTF is up with that? How did 15 weeks—101 days—pass by so quickly? I feel like I progressed from pants-shitting fear to awe to whatever-ness to joy to faded awe to peace and contentment to now. Now, I’m about to go back to America. And I’m so excited for that, but I’m also so sad to be going.
I didn’t think that I would be. I thought I would be satisfied with the amount of time I had here, and in a way I am. But I think I’m sadder that I don’t have more time. I’m sad that now that I’ve become comfortable in this place—past the point of thinking every London drizzle is quaint and being able to be enough of a resident to be annoyed with the weather—I want more time. I like being a resident; I like walking around.
I was talking to a friend—Charlie—and we were talking about time. This time has felt like an eon, and at the same time, nothing. New places always seem like such a long stretch of time, and when I think about early September—going to the gym, walking around Bankside in Southwark—doing my Halloween costume and pub crawls, wandering around museums, walking under the soft gray overcast sky. It’s been cool and fun and wonderful and nice. I didn’t have the pressure to see everything immediately and I got to do it at my own place.
And I think what I’ll miss most is that ability. Until I move into an entirely new city, I won’t have the experience of having four months to wander and discover. That’s been so crazy and weird and lovely.
And I’ll miss the growth. Before this, I was crippled by my fear of anxiety. Not even my anxiety. My anxiety about my anxiety. I was afraid of triggering it, of waking that beast. But this has been so beyond my wildest dreams and so outside of my comfort zone, that I think I shocked myself. I still have anxiety obviously, but I was able to conquer one small trigger—new places. New places used to scare the shit out of me. And I’m sure it’s something I’ll still struggle with; but I just lived across a fucking ocean for four months and managed to do it. If I’m strong enough to do that, I feel like I can do so much.
I traveled to a different country by myself. I’m not talking about England. I went to Spain for a weekend solo. I dumped myself in a country with no companions, no cellphone data, and no grasp of the local language. I’ve traveled on planes by myself, I’ve navigated in European cities. I’m gotten lost and found and lost. I’ve cooked food. I’ve never cooked food myself. Before this, I had made eggs and grilled cheeses and cereals. Now, I’ve done fried rice, pastas, sautéed shit and flipped shit and added ingredients. Who am I, Ina Garten?
Side bar: I’m so excited to binge-watch The Barefoot Contessa when I go home. That will be my Christmas break.
So I’m sad, and I feel like that’s so obvious, like “Duhh,” but I am. And I’m allowed to have these emotions. I’m glad for this opportunity, because I know that I won’t have it again in the same capacity. I’ll never again be a wild, sexy college student, traipsing around Europe for four months.
But maybe that’s good? Because there’s a pleasure in finite-ness. This is a thing, and it’s ended, but it’s been amazing and worthwhile and shocking. And it’s over, but that doesn’t negate its beauty. It makes it sad and wonderful and fleeting. And I keep saying “wonderful” but that’s what it is. It’s been full of wonder. And it’s made me full of wonder. I feel more fulfilled. I feel more independent. I feel more strong and old and opinionated and cool. I’ve gotten experience and a little bit heavier—I haven’t been working out—and cool Instagrams and amazing friends.
So thank you—everyone. Thanks to the friends that I made here, when I was dry-heaving inside and pretended to be cool so you would like me. Charlie and Millie and Jenna and Sebastien and Jenny and everyone else who I’m too lazy to give a pseudonym to. And thank you to my babes at home—Marco and Nina and Mitchell and Shelby and others—who chatted with me and made time for FaceTimes and late night chats and good times. Even though I wasn’t there, I was still there. And thank you family—Mom and Dad and Poppy and Margot—you guys are cool for sending me here. Thanks honeys.
So thank and what the fuck and I hope you’re having a good day and that you take leaps and feel fulfilled and be independent.