Humor, Life

BRASH AMERICAN

I have been in the UK for almost three weeks and I still have no idea whether Brits hate Americans or love Americans. I keep getting conflicting reports. I met this guy at the gym and he was British and said that everyone would love me, but people keep looking at me with thinly veiled disgust like I’m a toddler screaming in an Italian restaurant. I also don’t think my inability to read the denominations of coins works in my favor. The other day, I just held out my wallet to the cashier and she picked out the correct change.

My frequent refrain is: “I am a dumb American.”

It works roughly 60% of the time.

There are two major things I have noticed about Londoners, and both relate to voice. Firstly, they whisper everything. I shout everything. I am an exclamation point next to their ellipses. Before I learned to adjust my volume, I was easily the loudest person in any given room at any given time. In the entire country. When I went to Copenhagen (I’M INTERNATIONAL, BITCH!) over the weekend, the title of loudest creature in England probably went to a literal elephant or something like that.

The other thing is accents. Obviously I am aware that there are different accents. But I wasn’t prepared to hear them full-time and for the first forty-eight hours, I swore that every British accent I heard sounded faked. Also, in comparison to the soft English roses and lilting accents, my voice is a nasally nightmare. It sits thickly in my mouth, flattening every vowel like a steamroller.

In the States, I am used to be slightly superior to everyone else. In England, I am essentially a Beverly Hillbilly.

I have a newfound appreciation for Americans. I love our bold, brusque and loud ways. I like that we’re too blunt and awkward and funny.

Also OMG SIDE BAR: I have had multiple British people warn me that British people have a much more sarcastic, cunning sense of humor, as if I have never come into contact with that and that everyone in America is still laughing at anvils falling on Wile E. Coyote’s head.

Granted, that’s still fucking funny, but we have progressed a little. Give us some comedic credit, Britain.

But I also like things in London. I like how the rain feels quainter here. Like, it’s still rain, but it’s British rain so it’s slightly more polite. And I love the mews. They’re these little cobblestone offshoots from roads with houses converted—I think—from old stables or garages. And I like how there are green spaces everywhere. It feels more fresh than New York, but it still has that buzz that I like.

I feel distinctly American as I walk the streets, and I wonder what people see. I’m mostly of European descent—Irish (is Irish European? Or UK-ian? What?) and German and Austrian—so do I look like I fit in? Or does the American eek out of me? I walk like an American, sturdy and clomping and not at all graceful. And as soon as I open my mouth, I get clocked because I bray like a donkey.

But I’ve had two separate occasions of people asking me for directions—wait, three!—and that must signify some level of looking like I fit in. The first one was a woman asking me for directions to Heathrow Airport—Piccadilly Line westward—and someone else asked me where a certain tube station was. Also someone asked me for directions to a building and I gave them to him before realizing that I didn’t actually know where the building was. So two out of three isn’t bad.

Once I was on the tube alone—also no one talks on the tube, it’s so weird—and I wondered if people thought I was a ~hip~ Brit boy. They probably just wondered why I don’t brush my hair.

I’m learning to soften my voice, but I found that I can work the “charming American” angle very infrequently and sometimes it really works and other times you get that weird British stare that’s all “This idiot dropped tea into Boston Harbor” and there’s nothing worse than that stare. Also British people do not get my throwaway weird off-brand humor. So it’s a learning curve for both of us.

I’m also really good at looking to the right for oncoming cars and saying that cars here drive on the “left” side instead of the “wrong” side, because I realize that that’s a tiny bit xenophobic-sounding.

Side bar: Zenonphobia—fear of Zenon, Girl of the Twenty-First Century?

There’s really nothing more to say other than that I’m really enjoying scones and clotted cream. Well done, England. Truly.

Humor, Life

THE DEFINITIVE RANKING OF TAYLOR SWIFT MUSIC VIDEOS, feat. THE INFAMOUS SHELBY

Sometimes when you’re writing blog posts, it can get a little tiring. And also, there’s only so much I can write about myself before I start to hate myself. So I’m changing the tempo, switching the beat, and doing a different kind of blog.

I’ve teamed up with one of my best friends to bring you the definitive ranking of Taylor Swift’s music videos. Acting as a guest editor, the lovely Shelby will be helping me to decide what’s hot and what’s not in the Taylor-verse.

Side bar, this is not a little of every Taylor Music video because I’m only one fucking person, you guys. I can’t do everything.

LET’S TAKE IT FROM THE TOP!

1). Shake It Off

Shelby: I remember where I was when this single dropped.
Danny: The perfect “Fuck You” without being a “fuck you.” The beginning of a new era of pop.

2). Teardrops On My Guitar

Danny: This will forever be one of the greatest songs of my childhood. But Drew is not
Shelby: Why is she lying in a bed with rhinestones on her face?

3). Blank Space

Danny: A+ story. A+ visuals. And a little voodoo realness for your pleasure.
Shelby: I am distracted by the cat.

4). Picture To Burn

Shelby: Remember when that “I’ll tell mine you’re gay” line was controversial.
Danny: Omg yeah. Also this is giving me Carrie Underwood “Before He Cheats” realness.

5). Bad Blood

Danny: I’m only mad because this is not a full-length film. Although when they all clumped together at the VMAs, I was rolling my eyes a little.
Shelby: Too many ppl.

6). The Story of Us

Danny: I feel like I can see a glimmer of future feminist Taylor in this and I love it.
Shelby: Excellent use of a library.

7). Begin Again

Danny: I LOVE THIS. HER LIPS. HER HAIR. PARIS.
Shelby: The story and the plot aren’t matching up. But I like the color palette.

8). Love Story

Danny: I don’t hate this. Why don’t I hate this?
Shelby: Wait this boy is Miley’s ex? The underwear model?

9). Mean

Shelby: They ran too hard with the vaudeville theme.
Danny: I hate this but it’s like “a good message” for the “youth” so I like it.

THE MEH-DIUM

10). Back To December

Danny: Beautifully shot. Love the scarves. Scarfs? Scarves?
Shelby: But what REALLY happened between Taylor and Taylor?

11). You Belong With Me

Danny: I don’t even notice how cheesy this is. I’m lost in Lucas Till’s dimple. Don’t send help.
Shelby: Lucas Till = 2010 #baegoals. Fun fact: That shirt was really Taylor’s and so were the glasses. Those dance moves were also really Taylor’s.

12). We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together

Danny: I like the song, I just wish she would chill a little bit.
Shelby: The whole band wishes they weren’t there.

OUCH.

13). 22

Shelby: This looks stupid. We get it Taylor, you’re quirky and you bake a lot. Your whole life is an Instagram photo op. We get it.
Danny: The “vintage” photo border is very Microsoft Word 2007.

14). Our Song

Danny: Why is she writing on the mirror? She’s just gonna have to Windex that later.
Shelby: This rose bed looks like a Faith Hill video.

15). Everything Has Changed

Danny: I hate it when they use kid actors to represent the singers? Idk why. I hate kids. I guess that’s why.
Shelby: What the fuck kind of class are they making cookies in?

16). White Horse

Danny: I hate close-ups of mouths. It’s disgusting.
Shelby: WAIT THIS IS CLEARLY JOE JONAS BC HE BROKE UP WITH HER ON THE PHONE.

17). Change

Danny: She looks very “hottest girl in your Bible study class” here.
Shelby: It’s literally just spliced footage of one performance.

18). Fifteen

Shelby: This looks like someone discovered iMovie and was like, “ALL the effects!”
Danny: It looks like she’s in a bad teen movie’s idea of heaven.

19). Style

Danny: Too “artsy.” This song by itself is okay, but I just can’t with the video.
Shelby: 9-1-1! Taylor is touching chests and she’s only wearing a nightgown. That’s only 1 LAYER OF CLOTHING between them.

20). Wildest Dreams

Danny: Scott Eastwood is the only reason this video is not last place. Too problematic, and that wig is unforgivable. But I like her as a brunette.
Shelby: Ooooh my God. I’m moist.

21). I Knew You Were Trouble

Danny: What the fuck is the storyline? You might need rehab.
Shelby: The only good part of this video is that it led to the goat meme.

Truly this is a list for the ages. I actually really enjoyed doing this. Special thanks to Shelby and her roommate Melanie for helping me out with this post! You ladies really murdered my vagina—in a good way! Thanks!

Humor, Life

LADY LOVE

“I just don’t think that ‘first love’ has to mean ‘only,’ you know?” I said to my friend. We were twelve, sitting on the camp bus. I was deciding to break up with my summer love, my first girlfriend, and I can’t even take this post seriously.

At twelve, I believed I had found true love. I was feeling the Seven Year Itch, about fourteen years early, and didn’t want to be trapped in a committed relationship. Again, I was twelve.

At twelve, I thought that the feeling of “needing to escape” and not be “caged in” were related to the “serious” relationship were in. I was a man who needed to be out on the prowl. Obviously, it took a few years for the reality to sink in. I wasn’t afraid of commitment, I was just into dudes.

But at twelve, in the flush of romance, I did not even think about boys. Much. Maybe a little. Maybe a lot.

My first girlfriend—my only girlfriend—was also my first (heterosexual) kiss at twelve years old. We had dated for two weeks before we kissed. It was in the camp mess hall, at the end of the day. It was our “two week anniversary present.” I told her to close her eyes, and I kissed her. I remember the warmth and softness of her lips and sinking into the well of prickling, pleasant emotions from being close to someone. I scurried away as her eyes opened and we went to our respective buses, which were next to each other.

“Did you like it?” I mouthed to her, separated by two windows and empty space. She nodded, and I remember how bright her blue eyes seemed, searing like stars into mine.

We dated for two months before eighth grade and two months the next summer before ninth grade. She was always pretty when we had dated, but she became beautiful after we broke up and both went through puberty; so whenever I show people her picture as a fun little, “look what I did in the closet!” trip down memory lane, they are very impressed.

I actually saw her recently. I was at the train station that serves as our local Amtrak station, going back to school from a break, when I walked past her and a male I’m assuming is her hot boyfriend. They were waiting for a southbound train that was delayed, and I was heading back up north.

I walked past her and only noticed her coiled up on the floor, long legs tucked underneath her, as I was on par with her. I felt my spine stiffen and wondered if I should stop. But what would that conversation be like? Let’s imagine, shall we?

*****

Me: Oh my god, Darcy?

Darcy: Danny?

Me: How are you? It’s been so long. You look amazing!

Darcy: Thanks! So do you. Um, this is my boyfriend.

Boyfriend: Hey, man, how are you doing?

Me: I’m doing well.

Darcy: Danny and I went to camp when we were youn—

Me: We dated when I was in the closet!

Boyfriend: What?

Me: What?

Darcy: What?

Me: Anyway, great seeing you!

*****

Like, I don’t really imagine it going amazingly. So I kept walking. Because I was unshaven, wearing a baseball cap, and roughly seven years older and a foot taller than when we had last spoken, Darcy didn’t recognize me.

I don’t think of Darcy often, but when I do, I wonder what she thinks of me. I’m incredibly narcissistic, so obviously my only thoughts are self-centered. I often wonder what made her decide to “date” me all those years ago. This was largely before I was gripped by crippling insecurities—LOL—so I was free and uninhibited. I know what made me fall for her; she was tall and beautiful and dorky—she loved horses—and we really got along.

In fact, we got matching military dog tags that said our “ship” name. But this was before “ships” were really a thing, because it was 2007 and we didn’t really have the same Internet culture—that I was aware of. I also can’t write out our actual ship name because that would give away her name—Darcy is my blog name for her—so I guess it would be “Darny” which is lame. Not that our actual ship name wasn’t lame. Anyway, the dog tags both said, “Darny forever,” and we wore them.

My dog tag is stuffed in a tin pushed into the far recesses of my closet—ironically enough—but every so often, when I’m cleaning out my closet, I open up the tin and look at it, along with other relics of my life, mainly a Polly Pocket—in a cloth dress I made—and some ceramic mice. I have led a weird life.

Depressingly enough, Darcy remains my longest relationship, but that’s less to do with my amazing looks and more to do with my self-sabotage and fear of commitment. And my personality. And my narcissism. But did I mention my amazing looks? I did? They’re amazing.

P.S. I tried to find a picture concurrent to the time I’m talking about, but just looking through my old Facebook pictures is making me want to lowkey snap my laptop in half. So I don’t think I will.

Humor

THE GLIQUE

I’ve always been jealous of gay guys. I understand that that sounds confusing, as I am also a gay guy, but I’m not a very good gay guy. But then that’s also confusing, because that sounds like I’m constantly making out with girls. Which—for a stretch in my freshman year of college—was true, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m not making a lot of sense. But that’s normal for me.

What I mean is that I’m easily intimidated by gay guys. When I was in high school, I was the GAYEST CREATURE TO WALK THOSE HALLS. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t extraordinarily flamboyant or throwing glitter bombs on people. I was a dude who liked dudes in a school of all dudes, so that was pretty much the prerequisite for being the shiny unicorn object. I dug into that title of The Gay Kid in high school because it provided me with an identity.

That identity went up in a plume of smoke once I hit college. Suddenly, I was surrounded by worldly, beautiful, confident gays. And I found myself as the lone gay in a circle of heteros. I obviously love heterosexuals—I’ve fallen deep into like with a few—but I missed having gay friends. In high school, the LGBTQIA+ kids kind of banded together in a “summer camp meets The Walking Dead”-type closeness.

So when I finally did get some LGBTQIA+ friends—Marco, Mitchell, I’m looking at you two queens—we bonded over our shared awe of better gays.

*****

Also side bar, Mitchell fucking begged to have his name be “Mitchell” in the blog. Like, so desperate. This is 80% true.

The realness.

*****

In our school—should I give a fake name to my college? Fictitious University?—we’ve noticed two major prides—I feel like a group of gay guys would be called a “pride,” like lions, in the same way that a group of crows is a “murder of crows”—of gays, outside of our small little mini-pride. Our pride is so small that we’d be better off calling it a “shame.”

HEYO.

In one corner are the A Capella Gays. This is a group of gay guys that I only recently discovered, but they have infiltrated every facet of my life. The cute guy in the dining hall—an A Capella gay. The random guy I’ve seen in passing more times than I can count—an A Capella gay. The A Capella gays are the slightly less fascinating group. For example, if the two prides were classified as big cats, the A Capella gays would be jaguars because you’re not really sure what they’re about and you keep being like, “Are they leopards? Cheetahs?”

And the other group would be tigers. I do not know why I am so into Big Cat metaphors today.

The Glique.

The Glique—the Gay Clique—comprise of gay guys with perfectly manicured Tumblrs, a closet of artfully vintage flannels, and impeccable Instagram accounts. Now, if it sounds like I’m mocking these people—then I’m writing this wrong. I adore them. But I’m also terrified of them because they have their lives together in a way that I can never achieve. They seem elegantly moody—ennui—but they also do massive amounts of volunteer work. They care about recycling and homelessness and hunger.

*****

Side bar, I’m not saying I don’t care about these issues. I’m just saying they care more. Get off my back.

*****

The Glique rules FU with an iron fist. They are omnipotent in their social connections. Whenever I look up any of their brood on Facebook, I am bombarded with twenties of mutual friends—I didn’t know how to write that out. Because it’s not hundreds but it’s not tens. I made a choice and frankly I’m standing behind it—because somehow they know everyone.

The Glique has branches that extend into other social groups, widening their grip even further. I’ve tangoed romantically—poorly—with a few tertiary branch members, but I’ve never tapped into the Glique. And they’re all so beautiful that I can’t decide if I want to date all of them or just beg them to be my friends. That’s the interesting part about being gay; there can be a sense of competition alongside the attraction.

I think the worst part about the Glique is how nice they are. I want them to be icy and aloof, but they’re actually nice and normal, which makes it all the more confusing as to how they are so much more evolved than I am. Like, it must be strength in numbers, because one-on-one they seem almost approachable—almost—but when they converge as their pride, they become something…greater…more glittery…better.

My own little pride—name to be decided—can only stare in awe at the Dynasty of Gays. We marvel about how they somehow all met each other; how they date within their clan; how they manage to be friends and boyfriends and all various shades in between without seeming catty or incestuous. It’s, frankly, a phenomenon.

My little trio manages to fuck up a simple love triangle but somehow watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. I bet the Glique doesn’t even watch RuPaul. I bet they know RuPaul.

Oh, I just remembered that FU has an entire fraternity dedicated to gay, bisexual, trans and ally men. So that’s an entire other pride. I’ve dated within that pride too. BUT I CAN’T CRACK THE GLIQUE. WHY. Dating within the Glique would be an accomplishment on par with hacking into the Pentagon. And if I managed to succeed, my insecurities would be Penta-gone.

This entire post is inspired because I’m about to be in relatively close proximity with a Glique member and it would be a ~dream~ if I managed to break into their sanctum. Like I said earlier, one on one, they are more approachable. How much more? I guess it’s up to me—it’s practically a service to my country—to find out.

P.S. Here are the potential names I have for my pride:

The Unholy Trinity
The Holey Trinity (heyo)
Destiny’s Other Children
The Jonas Brothers

Humor, Life

SISTERS, NOT TWINS

I just plucked my eyebrows and as per usual, I don’t know if I’ve done well or made a horrible mistake. I just kept repeating to myself in front of the mirror, “They’re sisters, not twins. Sisters, not twins.” So hopefully my eyebrows end up being Kendall and Kylie, rather than Jan and Marcia.

I’m officially twenty now, and I say “officially” because for the last month before my birthday I always lie about my age. It’s not a vanity thing; it’s just easier to say, “I’m twenty” rather than “I’m nineteen but I’m not a new nineteen, I’m an old nineteen because I’m about to be twenty, if you get my drift.”

I also went to the dentist this morning, so my teeth ache. I have no cavities, but my dentist really goes to town with the scraper, and now my teeth feel like they’ve been stripped of a layer. Also, the idea of “teeth” is kind of weird. Like, you have these parts of your skeleton that stick out of a hole in your head, fall out, then grow back stronger. It’s very “Alien v. Predator.”

I had a Skype interview with a potential internship this morning, so obviously from the waist up, I was casual-cute, and from the waist down, I was in the gym shorts I’ve been sleeping in all week. It ended up that I didn’t even need to wear clothes because it ended up being an interview sans video, but I wanted to check the lighting of my room before the interview, so I opened up the Photo Booth on my Mac and took a photo. This is that photo.

As per usual, I look manic.

But then I scrolled through the photos that I’ve taken in the Photo Booth, and there’s not a lot. But one of the first photos was this gem:

Is this fedora a fedo or fedon’t?

And all I can say is that I’m sorry and I understand that this is painful for everyone to look at. I don’t know the exact age I was when this was taken, but I’m going to hazard a guess and say that I was probably around fourteen or fifteen. There are probably a number of questions you have for me, so I’ll just go ahead and answer before you even say it. Yeah, I’m that good at anticipating other people’s needs.

Yes, I still have that fedora.

Yes, I thought I looked good.

No, I did not get any dates that year.

Sometimes I just look at old photos of myself and it makes me want to rock back and forth and say, “I’m not that person anymore. I have blossomed,” because that kid was wannabe-scene and wore AVIATORS. I’m sorry, but he didn’t understand that WAYFARERS SUIT HIS BONE STRUCTURE MUCH BETTER. I can’t. I’m too emotional. I can’t do it.

I would write more but I honestly forgot that A) it was almost six o’clock, B) it was Thursday, and C) that I was human. Also my mouth feels really weird still from the dentist and I have Part 2 of the Real Housewives of New York City Reunion to watch. And my sister says I don’t have anything going on in my life!

P.S. I’ve realized that I’ll want to have some posts waiting in the wings for when I’m getting settled in London, but fuck all if I’ve started writing those things. So text me if you have any post inspirations or ideas for me. Thanks.

Humor, Rambles

THIS POST IS OAKY

I can’t really think of anything to write. I briefly contemplated not posting at all, but I’ve been doing a really great streak of having something up every Monday and Thursday and I know that I’ll feel bad if I don’t.

So here are a random string of paragraphs based on things that I’m thinking with my brain.

Someone went to the urinal next to mine in an otherwise empty bathroom. I don’t understand why people do this. Like, I get weirded out if someone parks next to my car in a mostly empty parking lot, but this involves my privates. I also have a shy bladder so if I had not already been peeing when he sidled up next to me, I would’ve done the urine version of a deer in headlights.

All of my friends are starting to go back to school and I’m going abroad so I leave like two weeks later than everyone else, and it’s not that I don’t want to go abroad, it’s just that for this brief amount of time when I’m stuck at home and they’ll all be with each other, before I go off on my Big Gay European Adventure—title pending—and do a bunch of stuff that’ll make them jealous, I’m the one that’s jealous. Some would say that this is a psychologically revealing moment for me where I come to terms with jealousy and blah blah blah, whatever, I’m a sociopath, get over it.

Can I have an open conversation with whoever designs menswear for J.Crew? Because we seriously need to talk about how there are no options for men, but the women have chic as fuck things year round. If I buy another cute flannel, I think my head might explode. Give me bold patterns, give me rips. Give me glamour, give me ass, give me love.

I’m seriously wondering if London has Panda Express. Like I know that there are better restaurants with better food that won’t do terrible things to my insides, but what will I do when the craving strikes across the pond if there’s no Panda Express? Like, I guess I could Google the answer but I prefer to live in ignorance.

I really miss Game of Thrones.

I have nothing else to say. I’m in the weird limbo of wanting to simultaneously be in Boston and be in London. I think once I get to London I’ll be better because I’ll be all British and hot as fuck and living my dream and walking around in Hyde Park. But it’s still rough. I hope I meet some cute boys there. And people who aren’t interested in partying until our brains leak out of our ears. Sometimes that’s fun, but I also need someone to veg with me. Who will be the carrot to my broccoli?

This blog is weird. That’s okay. I misspelt “okay” as “oaky” and that makes me think of how people use the weirdest adjectives to describe wines. BYE.

Essay, Humor

CHICKEN WINGIN’ IT

“If anyone asks, we all ate these wings,” I say to the table as my hand hovers over a plate covered with the bony remains of twelve chicken wings.

I’m sweating profusely from eating twelve chicken wings by myself, and I swipe the back of my hand against my forehead. Around the table, there are four other plates piled with chicken bones.

An actual gif of me.

*****

This post was basically decided for me, thanks to two of my coworkers/friends—let’s call them Melody and Aerin, you know who you bitches are—so, like, know that I was basically forced to write this like some kind of journalistic prostitute.

I had a post all about Go-gurt half-written for today, Thursday, but I switched to this because last night I—strong of body and narcissistic of mind—went out on a WEEKDAY like a goddamn Carrie Bradshaw.

Side bar, I wrote “Carrie Bradshaw” because she’s the only modern working-going out woman I know of, and I couldn’t remember what Samantha’s last name was in Sex and the City.

Wait, also side bar. Is it Sex In the City?

*****

Before going out to the local bar—and by “local” I mean the bar close to my work, which is forty minutes away for me—we went to a camp variety show, where I got a damp ass from sitting on moist benches. It was…a lot.

“Are you serious?” my coworker—hmmm, Evan (?)—says. He stands up and motions a hand down his front, pointing out his outfit. White t-shirt, olive chino shorts.

“Are you FUCKING serious?” I say. I look down at myself. White t-shirt, olive chino shorts. A few weeks ago, we went to a party and wore the same outfit as each other—black t-shirt and khaki chino shorts—yeah I’m not original. I don’t have a lot of non-gym short options, especially because I’ve gotten fatter but not gotten richer.

The fact that I’m apparently subconsciously psychically linked to this sixteen-year-old is a complete and utter waste of psychic abilities. Either that or God has a rude sense of humor.

Me.

Warren, in his raspy, young Walter Cronkite voice, laughs.

Every one of my friends—I guess I can call them friends instead of just “coworkers—is looking beautiful. But, frankly, I see them in very worn conditions, so just not have sweat stains larger than the rings of Saturn is an improvement.

We order our wings, after the waitress coming over multiple times, and after a quick but heated debate over the appropriate number of wings for Evan to order, it’s settled. I ordered six sesame and ginger and six tossed in a mixture of barbeque and buffalo.

Side bar, if I ever create a TV show, it will be a sitcom about a redhead, played by me, and an Asian, Sandra Oh, I’m assuming, who are best friends and chefs and I’m calling it Sesame and Ginger because I’m culturally insensitive and also hilarious.

*****

“White was not a good option to wear,” I joke. “You can probably see all of my sweat.”

No, you can’t see my sweat, but Melody points to my shirt, at a spot directly underneath my left collarbone. My stomach drops through the soles of my feet and burrows about six feet into the ground.

“What?” I ask, my voice cracking into a thousand pieces. “What?”

She doesn’t say anything, but keeps pointing. I tug at my shirt, tucking my chin down. And on my shirt is a glob of that fucking barbeque-buffalo sauce. On my WHITE, UNIQLO T-SHIRT.

I waddle—again, I’ve just consumed twelve chicken wings within a fifteen-minute stretch—to the bathroom and wring my hands on the doorknob. It’s locked, so I have to pretend to be a normal, functioning human being instead of a psychotic human volcano. The bathroom’s occupant eventually leaves, and I rush in.

First I wash my hands of any treacherous chicken residue and then examine the spot. In the mirror, the spot looks much smaller, but I imagine I can feel deliciousness soaking through the pearly fibers. I dampen it with a soaked paper towel and spend five minutes just batting at it like a kitten with a toy.

Halfway through the process, I look up at the mirror. Oh damn, I look hot. My shoulders look broad and muscular in the white t-shirt, and my hair lays thickly across my head, with the perfect amount of swoop. Not crazy enough to be a swish but not flat enough to be a flop. Sometimes I forget that I’m a broad person. I still think I’m the scrawny beanpole—with a 10/10 face, of course—but I’ve become…wide—in good ways. I look, like, really hot. Fuck yeah.

Eventually, the glob has diminished into a slight smear, that keeps taunting, but I know have another issue. My shirt is a thin, silky-feeling material, i.e. I now have a wet circle of fabric beneath my collarbone that has all the subtlety of a gunshot wound.

I press my hand neatly against the wet, very “Southern belle,” as I leave the bathroom because A) my last-minute frantic attempts to dry it off have not gone well and B) there’s a very small window where you can be in the bathroom without people thinking you’re shitting.

*****

The whole point of the night was to hang out with coworkers at the bar late into the night until everyone realizes that they’re in love with me. They are, they just need to figure it out. But the bar is so often frequented by fetuses—sixteen-year-olds—that the owner of the bar flips on the lights at 10:30.

Everyone hisses like vampires.

“All right, everyone without an ID get out,” he says. My friends—cool fetuses, not lame fetuses—decide to leave before they’re kicked out. So suddenly our friend group is fractioned off.

Then, later in the night, I spotted a hot British guy, one that Melody and Aerin frequently obsess over. I’m standing five feet away, his back is turned to me, so I say to Evan and another coworker—Miles—“Oh my god, it would kill them if I got a picture of him.”

We debate several different ways to take his photo. I say that I should go with the classic “walk up and take the photo over his shoulder and then change my name and join the Witness Protection Program” but that doesn’t go over so well. Miles and Evan spend a hot second trying to take secret swiping shots of him.

I, in my infinite wisdom, say, “Or we could just do this,” and lift up my phone in clear view, zoom in and hit the button. All of a sudden, my flash goes off. I narrowly avoid smashing my phone on the ground and double over, pressing the flash into the fabric of my shirt as the camera goes off. Serves me right for playacting paparazzi.

Also a real gif of me.

Eventually my friends and I “leave”—decide to vacate the premises before we are thrown out—and I hiss “Fuck you”s to all of the people my age or younger that I pass on the way out of the door who are being ballsy as shit and staying in the bar.

*****

We hang out a park—no stabbings—for a while, discussing various tidbits of gossip, before splitting up to go home.

I guess, as a college student, the night was a technical fail because we got “kicked out” but I ate twelve chicken wings, so I’m counting last night as a win. And that’s all that really matters.

*****

Side bar, should I publish the Go-gurt post? It’s just essentially 400 words of portable dairy conspiracies. I think I just answered my own question: FUCK YES.

P. FUCKING S. I’m so sorry Marco, but I put Sandra Oh down because I figured in between us traveling the world as a pop duo, our burgeoning organic pudding shop and our podcast, we might need a little space. Mistake rectified; Sandrah Oh is OUT.

Essay, Humor, Life

DANCES WITH WHITE BOYS

“I already picked my outfit, but let’s go back through this journey,” I say to my little sister, flipping through the photos of possible outfits.

“No. No. No,” she says, rejecting three of the possibilities. We land—communally—on the outfit I’m already wearing: a light white short-sleeve button-down with neat, cubed stripes and medium brown tapered chinos.

I close my iPhone, making the screen go black on the coterie of headless photos, each angled in a way to showcase the outfits, variations on short-sleeved button-downs and narrow pants—in pairs of black and blue, blue and brown, and pastels.

The outfit is flattering, broadening my shoulders, slimming my waist and just generally creating that V that drives the boys wild. But, in boat shoes and a watch, the outfit feels a little vanilla. A little preppy. It’s a little white bread for me. I like dark, sleek colors, or muted patterns. The Ralph Lauren—oops, just let me pick up the brand name I dropped—shirt and chinos are all fine and dandy, and I know that I’d rather look good than weird and misshapen, but I just feel like a little non-me.

I spent roughly forty minutes curating outfits, trying them on, taking pictures, and getting multiple opinions before arriving at the White Bread option.

Tonight’s our staff banquet. It’s kind of the social event of the season, when the norm is getting sunscreen stains on my gym shorts and a crick in my neck from talking to seven-year-olds. Basically, we needed this, y’all.

My little sister—let’s call her Poppy—is looking chic in a deep blue sleeveless dress with a scalloped hem. I straightened her hair for her, her sitting doing her makeup and me haphazardly taking great swatches of dark brown hair and running it through the scalding clamps. Ten minutes into it, and I’ve already put more effort into her hair than I’ve ever put into my own.

*****

“Omg, look at him,” my coworker—sixteen years old—salivates over a boy, tanned, muscular and coiffed—the epitome of the Abercrombie Zombie.

“I don’t really like his shirt,” I say sharply, drawing her attention back to me. Just as the sentence escapes my mouth, someone else whispers, “Oh my god, I like his shirt.” I lean across the table and pat her hand. “No you don’t, honey. He’s just hot.”

*****

The lights are down and everyone is a pulsing mass on the dance floor. I’m in the middle of the mass, dancing with my friends. We’re being jostled by the people dancing around us.

The dance floor becomes a colony of microcosmic communities. There are constantly shifting dance circles, which vary in size, people dancing in the center, transferring across the expanse with others. There are small clumps drifting in between. The sixteen-year-olds cling together like lampreys on a whale, bobbing in unison. My group forms a loose oval, people stepping in and out.

The dance floor becomes an ocean, rippling and mutating. It ebbs and flows. It undulates with a liquid quickness. The sixteen-year-olds are a darting school of fish. My friends and I are jellyfish, languid and sleek in our motions, playing off each other. The lifeguards are seals, clamoring barks that go up into the pulsating air that’s already filled with deep bass and synthetic notes. The sports specialists—a motely crew of soccer, tennis, baseball—are penguins, muscular and lithe and slick and bobbing against each other. And in the center of the ocean are the Straight White Boys, slamming against each other and dashing up and down in the crowds like dolphins diving through crested waves.

I am a White Boy, so I move with the awkwardness that comes from long, gangly limbs and jarring hip-drops. But the Straight White Boys seem to leap above the awkwardness, and treat the dance floor with a tribal hunger, a clannish mob mentality. They crash against each other, fists in the air, screaming the words. Unabashed. Fearless.

*****

I wish I could dance like they do, unabashed. Unafraid. I wonder what it’s like to claim something without any hesitation. Without any forethought. The SWBs claim their method of dancing as assuredly as their predecessors claimed things like late night television and the Presidency. My predecessors, the Gays, claimed the margins, the outskirts. They sometimes even claimed the skirts.

*****

I have a chronic problem with living in the moment. I’m always too aware of my hands, the stilted movement in my legs. I consciously loosen my muscles, whip my hair out of its neatly, American Crew-ed coif and try to have fun.

I don’t know how many more summers I have of languidly hot days spent walking across the green fields of our camp. I don’t know how many more summers I have before I commit to a job, a field, a career. I don’t know these things.

So I decide to throw up my chin, glint my teeth and have fun. My body slips unconsciously into rhythm, and it syncs up with everyone else, until the ocean glides in beat and the dolphins appear to stop breaking against each other and everything else and start to move in harmony with the current. The seals bring out the laughter in everyone else. The fish dart and tickle and lighten. And the jellyfish, we bob faster, happier, funnier.

*****

I only have so many moments on this craggy, smooth, mountainous, oceanic planet. I only have so many milliseconds with friends. I only have so many shared gazes with cute boys across the room. We only have so many…fill in the blank.

So I stop analyzing things in the moment. I stop placing meanings on the people, stop subconsciously dividing them into genii to make it easier for filing later. I stop noticing the patterns and the movements and start dancing.

Because sometimes that’s all we can do. Throw up our hands, toss back our heads, giggle and act like dummies and the real dorks we are.

THE END

Essay, Humor

RUINING CHRISTMAS

I’m cringing a little bit as I realize that I’m about to write about this. I don’t think I truly have anything to lose—my flickering scraps of dignity are scattering day by day—so maybe it’s empowering and freeing? Mom, never read this.

Red alert, I’m not going to be naming the thing that this essay is about because some of those flickering scraps of dignity came floating back, so I will be referring to it as a “Christmas present.” Sorry, Christians? You’re welcome, Jews?

*****

“Did you do it yet?”

I’m inside the bathroom stall, angling the camera high to capture the best the fluorescent light has to offer. Trying to make it look big but not too big, trying to make my Christmas present look natural, casual and effortless.

“I can’t do it with you guys right outside,” I hiss back, pulling up my gym shorts and opening the bathroom stall. My friends are standing—two of them—outside of the bathroom stall. I’m the first of us to send a Christmas present to a stranger, so this is a communal experience.

But sending a Christmas present while your friends stand two feet away is about as sexy as blowing your nose in a stranger’s jacket at Whole Food’s. It’s also not very conducive for getting the deed done quickly and efficiently.

“I can’t get it…wrapped…if you guys are right outside,” I tell them, retreating back into the stall. Trying to keep everything looking presentable, while getting the lighting and angle right, this is more pressure than it’s worth.

My friends quiet down and exit our dorm bathroom. I breathe deeply, my brain narrowing down to a fine focal point.

Calm. Zen. Don’t think too hard about it. Don’t say the word “hard.” Don’t make yourself laugh. Laughing isn’t sexy, or sexy-adjacent. Oh god, now I’m thinking about laughing. I can’t focus.

My muscles are practically in spasm from maintaining the position for so long. Should I use the Grindr app? Should I do it on my camera? Do I have Photostream on? Oh my god, I hope not. Oh my god, is my iCloud on? Should I do a Polaroid?

The bathroom door—the main one, not the stall—swings open, and my nerves are aflame, camera app open. Soft footfalls.

“Did you do it yet?”

“FUCK.” I yank up my pants, even though there’s a good inch of solid metal—hanging slightly wonkily—between us. “GET OUT.”

Ten minutes, two pep talks and one Zen meditation later, I emerge victorious and mentally exhausted.

*****

“Can you send me one?” my friend Luna asks, a year later when I’m telling her the story. I stop short.

“Um, I guess?”

Sending a platonic Christmas present to a friend is like having someone grade me on private blog posts. I mean, it’s good to have an outside opinion but some things are like just for personal lil ole me so don’t crush my soul, maybe?

Sending Luna a platonic Christmas present was literally the hardest—don’t—thing I’ve ever had to do. Nothing is as unsexy as sending something like that platonically purely for curiosity.

“Delete it RIGHT AFTER,” I text her alongside the present.

“For sure!” she texts back.

She doesn’t delete it, and I don’t even feel betrayed because I ending up showing the Christmas present to all of my friends—sans Marco, because we’re trying to not destroy our friendship—on the last night of sophomore year. At this point, we’re so close that it’s not even weird. These are the people I’ve mooned multiple times in semi-public places and countless times in private places.

The girls of our friend groups send “Chanukah menorahs”—omg, sorry Judaism!—and the boys send Christmas presents and afterwards everyone has been thoroughly desexualized.

*****

*peers around from behind closed door*

Hey y’all! Do I have any readers left? Just the pervs and the serial killers? Great, my target demographic. I’m glad we’ve weeded out the weaklings.

But seriously guys, let’s not pretend that none of us have done something stupid or rash or something stupid that ended up giving us a rash.

I like showing my friends Christmas presents because I think it takes both the stigma and the nerves out of it. Like, I’m not a fucking nudist, but why do we take things so seriously? Note, this is not an invitation to send me platonic Christmas presents. Please, I’m not a heathen. Just some side-boob. I’m elegant.

Oh my god I’m literally laughing to myself because this post was such a fucking mistake but I’m gonna publish it anyway because I’m too lazy to think of something else. You guys, oh my god.

But more importantly, did they use to send Christmas presents on Polaroids? Or, even more importantly, something older? Those cameras where you had to duck underneath the curtain? Or an etching, a la Paul Revere’s Boston Massacre etching of 1770? Am I seriously making this into a history lesson?

The only things my “Christmas present” and Paul Revere’s Boston Massacre etching have in common are the fact that both were made in Boston and both portray British people in a bad light.

This post has gone as far as it possibly can. Bye!

Humor, Life, Rambles

AN ASS LIKE A THROW PILLOW

I have this theory that I only look truly hot in my bathroom mirror.

And if proven to be true, this theory is quite unfair to the other (seven billion minus one, I can’t even begin to do that math) people on this Earth because (seven billion minus one) people cannot fit into my bathroom all at the same time to witness me looking hot. And even if we scheduled out a time to get roughly six people into my bathroom to witness me looking hot, it would take a billion (is that right?) trips to show everyone how hot I looked.

How much “more info” could I possibly want?

Adding in the time required for each person to adequately drink in my beauty, and I’m looking at 32 years—at least—of being in a bathroom with six other strangers, and that’s just if each group gets a one-second viewing, which is unlikely and—frankly—unfair to them. But by even doubling the viewing time—64 years—or tripling it—96 years—it still seems impossible to do.

So the moral of the story is that you’ll have to just take my word for it that I’m hot.

End of post.

Just kidding. Could you imagine? That was basically a math class.

Side bar, I was lying on my front lawn with my laptop—to be artsy, obviously—and I had to give up because I was getting uncomfortably moist. Which got me thinking, is that redundant? Is there a way to be “comfortably moist?” It doesn’t seem like it.

I’ve been wearing a lot of short bathing suits and watching a lot of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, which obviously has led me to thinking about my ass a lot. I’m long and lean—with a 10/10 face, in my bathroom mirror—so while my butt is cute and perky, it doesn’t pack a punch.

So today—Sunday, today, not Monday, today, when you’ll be reading this—I did squats and lunges. I put on “The Night Is Still Young” for some Nicki Minaj inspiration. And while doing that, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—the mirrors at my Planet Fitness gym might be a solid second for how hot I look—and saw my profile. And my little tush wasn’t Kardashian-esque but it was cute in profile.

I was listening to Ross Mathews’ podcast Straight Talk With Ross—

Minute—minute as in “very small” and not as in “a measurement of 60 seconds”—side bar, I never know when to italicize and when to put things in quotes. Like, if it’s apart of a greater piece of work, you put in quotes, I think, but what is a podcast? Very unclear.

—and one of his cohosts was giving advice to a caller. She was nervous about bringing a guy back to her house because it wasn’t all Pinterested out and she was worried he wouldn’t be (P)interested in her if her house was subpar. And the cohost said that most people don’t notice the décor if the ambience and the host are warm and inviting.

“He’s not going to notice your throw pillows,” she—the cohost—said. “He’s going to notice you.”

And so, in a roundabout—“rounded butt” more like it—way, my ass is like a throw pillow. It’s nice that it’s there, but it’s not crucial to the party. But then, also, in a later episode, Ross said that he has roughly forty throw pillows in his house and he rotates and swaps them out, so maybe throw pillows are important? I’m getting very mixed signals here. What does that mean about my butt?

I’ve been reading a lot of BuzzFeed articles about how to “dress for your curvy body,” and while that sounds odd, because I’m not a voluptuous woman, I’ve discovered a ton of curvy women role models who totally embrace their body. Add that in to Ross Mathews, who is the poster child (man?) for loving your body, and that’s really what I want to get into. Loving my body. Living for it. Thinking that it slays. Because body confidence is sexy and refreshing and wholly too uncommon.

I have a small but perky butt. I have long eyelashes. I have good hair. I have nice lips. I have shoulders that have potential, a little tummy poof. But I have killer thighs and calves. That can be enough for now. I still slay. I’m still making people gag on my eleganza, live for me, die for me.

P.S. I saw this commercial for a medicine that combats foot fungas and it had an anthropomorphized foot playing tennis. This is not Don Draper’s dream.

There are no words. This is pedi-ful. Get it? Like “pitiful” but “pedi” because of foot.

The Wunderkindof

Too good-looking to be this funny. Politics. Pop Culture. Millennial Ramblings.

Category Archives: Humor

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