Life

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS

I really don’t know how to write a blog post without addressing the tragedies in Paris. I don’t think it would be right to ramble about boys or mishaps or other minutiae when our world exists in a state of mourning.

I don’t generally like to write about things like this, because I feel like I’m never educated enough, or it would be disrespectful, or just general fear of offending someone. But I think that with things like this, or the bombings in Beirut, or the tensions in Missouri.

The world is a hurtful, fucked-up place. And it’s painful. And it’s chaotic. And it’s cruel. And I don’t know if I can say anything that will be new or revolutionary. Actually, I know I can’t. But I can say that I have never experienced that fear that so many people went through in Paris. Or Beirut. Or Syria. Or Missouri.

All I can do right now is offer up prayers and sorrow and breathe in their pain and try to shoulder some of it. And that might not be a comfort. That might be pointless. But I think to roll over, to claim this as inevitable, to pretend it’s like a tsunami or an earthquake—a natural phenomenon—destroys what we are trying to accomplish. Maybe there will always be people with evil intentions who want to hurt. Who want to smash. Destruction is easy. It is vicious and indulgent and venomous.

But they are not immortal. They are not forces of nature. We can fight back. And we can say that this is not the story. We can say that they do not determine how we end. We stand strong. We mourn and we hold each other but we stay resilient. It’s so dumb-sounding when I write it out but I can’t not say it and I can’t think of anything else. Because these tragedies can drown us if we let it. They can distinguish our faith in the common good of humanity.

We can see humanity as inherently evil. As doomed to implode. To dissolve into entropy. To accept this as the natural order.

Fuck that. Fight. Scream. Yell. Tell those who would tear us down—terrorists, racists, transphobes, misogynists—those who would divide and destroy and vanquish to go fuck themselves. There are a thousand ways to respond to stimuli. They responded with violence. And anger. We can choose a different way. We can choose resilience, strength, iron spines and gritted teeth. We can choose to stand back up. We can honor our dead, protect our living, cry and wail until the grief becomes infinitesimally more manageable.

I do not know what those people went through. In Paris. In Beirut. In Syria. In Lebanon. In Missouri. Across the world. And to claim that I do is vastly inappropriate. But I want to hurt with you, to mourn with you, to honor you. I want to fight for you. I want to give us the freedom to control our own stories. Our own endings.

The world is a hurtful, fucked-up place. It is painful. It is chaotic. But to accept that as fact doesn’t work. It ends with people like ISIS winning. It ends with us at each other’s throats. The world doesn’t have to be a hurtful, fucked-up place. Evil isn’t a tsunami. It isn’t a natural phenomenon. It is a mutation. And it can be fought against. It is not the final word. It is not the closing of the book. We can let it not be. I don’t know if this was right or smart or coherent. Because sometimes our responses aren’t. But I’m sorry, to Paris, to Beirut, to Missouri. I’m sorry and I hurt for you, and I’ll fight for you. We will tell your stories. Your bravery and your love and your fight won’t drown. They won’t dissolve into entropy. They will multiple and expand as infinitely as the universe. They will expand upon matter.

Humor, Life

I’M YOUR PROBLEMATIC FAVE—LISTENING TO CHRISTMAS MUSIC

I made a Christmas playlist on Tuesday and I’ve been listening to it. Before you pick up those stones, ask yourself this: are you about to stone me because I committed a holiday faux-pas, or because you’re jealous that you didn’t do this yourself?

*gets hit in the head with a large stone* I deserve that.

But let me explain. Linda, Linda, listen. Listen. Amiright? Who got that reference? Google it, people. It’s pop history.

In case you live under a rock—girl, you deserve better than that—I’m living in London at the moment. I shop for groceries here, I poop here, I take the tube, I get lost in Hyde Park. And here in England—omg, name drop—they don’t have Thanksgiving. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT MEANS?

No faux-pas. No arbitrary rule about waiting until after Thanksgiving. Once Halloween goes back into its dark hole, it’s open season, goddamnit. And since I’m missing Thanksgiving in America this year—frankly, I could afford to skip those calories—I’ve decided to embrace the British and start listening to holiday music.

And I’ve never felt so alive. I realized that the act of waiting until after Thanksgiving is completely idiotic. That leaves hardly a month for listening to Christmas music, which is—according to multiple sources that I can’t divulge for privacy reasons, not because they don’t exist—one of the greatest genres. I don’t want just a month of Christmas music. I want more. I guess I’m a typical American in that sense. Ironic that it took me living like a Brit to find that out.

Is that irony? I’m not sure what ironic means. I guess that’s pretty ironic. Did I get it that time?

*****

I’m not the kind of person who typically gets into the holidays. I guess I just usually feel like holidays are kind of a letdown. But I really need to stop hate-scrolling on the Instagrams of people who get into the holiday spirit, and I realize that most of those people are making an active attempt to be festive and get into the spirit. So I’ve decided that this year, I’m going to be all festive and shit.

*****

I also have been feeling anxious lately, and this Christmas music playlist is making me feel better. I know you’re asking yourself, “Is he mentioning the mental illness thing as a way of making it harder to give him shit for listening to Christmas music before Thanksgiving?” And to that I say, “No comment” and pop a Zoloft.

I haven’t been feeling anxious for any particular reason, except every reason, but that’s just the name of the game with depression/anxiety. You can have no reason to be feeling this way, and your illness is like LOL YOU WILL FEEL IT.

I’ve been stressed about this study abroad almost being over. I’ve been stressed about worrying if I’m not traveling enough. I’m stressed about classes for next year. I’m stressed about boys. I’m stressed about being a tad homesick. Not in like a “crying” homesick way. Just like in a, “I would really like a Dunkin Donuts medium caramel iced coffee (with a Turbo shot and no milk) and also to not have to do math whenever I’m paying for something, and also to have actual money again,” homesick way. So I guess, when I write it out, there might be a reason for the anxiety.

Whatever. Idk. Whatever.

*****

So because I’m like a total slut for Christmas music now, I’m going to divulge my playlist:

My Christmas 2015 Playlist, aka “YAS GAWD NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL CHRISTMAS”

One part Kelly Clarkson’s Wrapped In Red
One part Frank Sinatra’s The Classic Christmas
One part Michael Bublé’s Christmas
One part Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You”

Stir thoroughly, adding in dashes of drag queen Christmas singles, The Weather Girls’ “Dear Santa—Bring Me A Man,” and Kylie Minogue’s very sexy “Santa Baby.”

Add Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me” to taste. Serve immediately.

Caveat: Once it’s November 13^th, I will be adding the RuPaul’s Drag Race alumnae’s holiday album Christmas Queens. This will change the pH balance of the mix, because it’s about to get real basic. Okrrrrr?!

Side bar: Are they “alumnae” (the feminine plural Latinate ending) or are they “alumni” (the masculine plural ending)? Or maybe “alumna” (the gender neutral plural Latin ending)? So many questions.

*****

All in all, I’m trying to be a festive little snow baby. Even though it probably won’t snow while I’m in England. And it probably won’t snow when I’m back in New York for Christmas. It’ll probably dump four feet when it’s February and I’m pissed about Valentine’s Day. But being a snow baby is independent from the weather. Being a snow baby is purely a mental game. It’s all about in here *taps the side of head*. All in here.

Alright, kiddos. I’m gonna go and start making a list of every holiday movie I’m going to watch. *Dodges another huge rock to the face* Okay, okay, I get it! I’ll roast a turkey! Fuck. You people are insatiable.

Life

OCCUPATION: SINGLE

Previous Experience: My life

Sex: *giggles* Yes please

Recommendations: For myself? Less whining on the Internet

I’ve been watching Sex and the City since writing about it, and I’ve watched 1.5 seasons in the past two days, because I’ve been sick—that’s a half-truth—and it’s very addicting. But having watched it for the past 48 hours, I’ve picked up on a couple of things.

It’s basically porn? Like this was a cultural phenomenon and it’s weird to think of the fact that like, people my mom’s age probably watched this? Idk? Weird?
Everyone used to say I was a “Miranda” because we both have red hair and I don’t want to be any of them? But if I did, I would want to be the dog that Charlotte has for an episode. Or Candace Bushnell—she’s probably made so much money off this show.

But what I find the most fascinating is the concept of “single.” Each of the women is single. She talks about single. She whines about being single. She wines about being single. She goes on dates. She gets set up. It falls apart. And she starts again. But for most of the episodes, the ladies—pronounced “ladeez” like a car salesman—self-identify as single.

But it’s not a phase. It’s not an adjective. It’s a noun. A “single.” A. Single. Girlfriend.

When did singularity become a job? You put your entire life into it. You cultivate its singlehood. You name it. You raise it. And even if people flit in and out of your life, it’s like a tortoise. It doesn’t die. It might have a few different varieties based on location. But that tortoise is still a tortoise. And you’re still a single.

And I’m only twenty. And I can imagine that the single vs. married thing will only grow stronger. Because I already know marrieds. They’re not married, but they’re “marrieds.” They’re “we’s” instead of “he’s” and “she’s” and they sit on the same side of the booth in the dining hall. Let me tell you something. The only people who sit on the same side of the booth as someone, leaving the other side as blank as the Arctic, are serial killers, conjoined twins, and serial monogamists.

The “marrieds” pick up boyfriends the way you pick up haircuts, but your haircuts last longer. They’re either as easily pairable as peanut butter—think jelly, bananas, marshmallow fluff, chocolate—or as peculiar as dodo birds and mate completely for life with someone as odd as them.

For me, “single” was always the default, but I never sought it out as a noun. Now, I can start to see the power. Single (adj.) is a state of being, one that can be transitionary, but relies on outside forces to move it. “Single” (noun) is a position, like CEO, that is taken upon yourself. There’s a power in it. Being a single versus being single. In English class, they tell us never to use passive verbs. They strip the sentence of power. Maybe adjectivizing the state of your romantic life has the same effect. Noun that shit.

Side bar: How this became a lesson in grammar is beyond me, but let’s go with it?

Singles are too eclectic to be peanut butter, but not eccentric enough to be dodo birds. They’re Jenga—able to be played alone, can be played with partners, and accustomed to toppling down in a spectacular mess. Singles are a little spiky, not particularly adept at fitting into puzzle pieces. They’ve “I’s” and “you’s” and “she’s” and “he’s” and “it’s”.

Singles are diagonal-sitters. Not side-sitters—because we’ve established the cons of that already. Not across-sitters—because we don’t want to close off our possibilities. Diagonal-sitters—close to be intimate, angled to be open. I can imagine that as we age, the lines become more drawn. The marrieds start popping out Pottery Barn registrations, and our most consistent relationships will be with our hands or our therapists.

I find myself fascinated with couplets. I think it’s cool and beautiful and someday I think I’d like to be a part of one. But I also can’t spend a full day with someone without trying to emotionally manipulate them into leaving me alone. And I have yet to go on a date without some less of self-sabotage. If we’re discussing grammar, it’s the equivalent of mixing up “apart” and “a part.” I’ve got the letters right, but that space is fucking me every time. Alpha-privative. The noun versus adjective comprehension gap.

I think I could be fine with being Miranda. She buys a kick-ass apartment in the second season. And we could probably use the same color palette, but I’ve got to get her to stop wearing yellow. It doesn’t suit us.

Humor, Life

THE ONE WHERE I WRITE LIKE CARRIE BRADSHAW

Disclaimer: This post is alternatively titled “Sad and the Pity,” for mostly jokes but also truths. Also don’t sue me, Sex and the City, for copyright infringement!

Okay, now onto the Bradshawisms!

I collapsed onto my bed, kicking my socked feet up and releasing a loud, Neanderthalic groan. My shoulders hurt. My back hurts. My legs hurt. My heart hurts. And my bank account hurts. I was an intern. I had been lugging a messenger bag around all day, from the office to the hotel where the event I was covering was being held, then back to the office, then back to the hotel, then home.

I was coiled tight from a massive headache and the fear that if I kept carrying a messenger bag, I would end up with shoulders like Caroline Stanbury—she put an Instagram up the other day of her and her shoulders were very lopsided and while I’m not bodyshaming anyone, that’s just not on my to-do list.

And so, as I nearly climaxed in relief with my body in one long horizontal line, I had to wonder: how did adults do this all day, every day?

Side bar: I actually don’t know what else Carrie Bradshaw does other than say “I had to wonder” because I haven’t really seen the show that much and I’m using her name in the title as clickbait! Tricked ya! Keep reading! Where are you going? Mom?

Side side bar: I also ripped off Friends with “The One Where x,y,z.” CLICKBAIT.

Anywayanywayanyway.

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In college, I’ve done a lot of different jobs. I’ve been a radio deejay, a blogger, a fashion journalist, a columnist, (briefly) an editor (before I fucked that up, oops, sorry guys lol), and a copywriter for an ad team (for a project that we then won, because—probably—of me). And for the more interesting things I’ve done, the stuff I actually enjoyed, I had to wonder: “Do jobs like this actually exist in the amorphous ether of the ‘Real World’*?”

*Not to be confused with The Real World.

I was sitting in a small Persian green-eats restaurant—which Jenny tells me is not a thing that is real even though I was sitting in it Jenny—with my co-intern—Amanda (?)—and we were discussing jobs. And I said something—deeply profound—that went along the lines of: “I always used to hope that the college jobs I write for would have real-life counterparts.” Because if they don’t, why the fuck am I writing a 1000-word article called, “Jeans Or Khakis?” and interviewing people in the dining hall?

Meanwhile, across town, my friends are in their own internships. Some are living it up in their fields—moi—some are doing jobs they like in fields they don’t—Sebastien—some are doing jobs that they thought would be glamorous but aren’t and that makes me really happy—some random hot guy in one of my classes—and some are making IKEA runs in return for work that might someday lead to a real job—Charlie—and all of us are operating under this notion that jobs are unicorns. People in the Middle Ages believed they were real, but now everyone is telling you your dreams are dead and that you’ll never make a career as a writer and you might as well marry rich—um, I meant to write that everyone is telling you that unicorns aren’t real. Sorry. Got off track.

It’s interesting because I know what I want to do, it’s just I don’t know how. Or I read articles like “I’m a Homeless Writer” or “Give Up On Your Dreams, Danny” or “101 Ways To Be A Successful Writer” and 100 of them are “exploit your mental illness” and one of them is “World War II books.”

I feel like Carrie Bradshaw asks a lot of rhetorical questions and makes a lot of generically vague, moderately uplifting/poignant sentences (depending on the episode). So I’m gonna do that here.

So what did I want to do? I wanted to write, I wanted to write until my fingers were stiffer than the heel of a Manolo Blahnik and my creative voice was stronger than a Cosmo*. I wanted to be everyone’s agony aunt, except instead of asking me for advice, people learnt from my mistakes. I wanted to make people laugh and not cry and cry if they need to and laugh while crying. I wanted to be the someone that I could’ve used when I was twelve.

*Not to be confused with the “cosmos,” the popular outer space phenomenon.

But how does one do that? How does one take that leap of faith? The answer, I wondered, might be deceptively simple. Jump. Write everything. Write anything. Throw caution to the wind.

Because, like men, there is a great job out there for me. It might not be perfect—I might have wake up early to get there on time. It might be a little annoying sometimes. It might not tolerate my unabashed stanning for the Kardashian-Jenners. It might ask me to stop wearing sweatpants in public. That I won’t stand. That’s a dealbreaker. But in general, jobs can be like men. Not perfect, a little bit weird, but there’s a match out there for everyone.

And unlike men—unless this is a Dr. Frankenstein’s Monster situation—you can create your own job when you’re a writer if you don’t find one. Our craft is in our head and—if you’re like me—your head is a vast whirlpool of weird, funny ideas and mild depression.

Maybe I’ll have the job of my dreams. Maybe I’ll make it myself. Maybe I’ll write a fantastic book that helps a lot of people and gets me on Ellen. And not just as a video segment of me running naked through a McDonald’s drive-thru. A real, sit-down interview. Maybe I’ll find a job where not only do I not have to hide my weirdness, I can actually celebrate it and write about it. Maybe I’ll find the perfect job when I stop looking for the perfect job.

*Closes eyes and walks into closed door*

So in the meantime, I’ll enjoy only really having my blog to worry about as my thing. Eventually I might have kids—aka a dog—or a husband—aka a bottle of white wine—to occupy my time. And I’ll have a high-powered job where I can wear flannel to work and write about pop culture and make penis puns. Wouldn’t that pe-nice? AYOO.

That was really fun to be inspired by the ghost of Carrie Bradshaw. I know that I’m not as glamorous/old as Sarah Jessica Parker, but I hope—for just a moment—I was your Carrie Bradshaw. I hope that my angst was your angst in this moment, and that you could see me slow-spinning in a tulle skirt right now.

Me @ myself

I find inspiration in writers—even fictional ones like Carrie. I love my Sloane Crosleys, my Tina Feys, my Ryan O’Connells. But I love one writer even more than I love all my idols. I love myself. So while y’all are great—previously mentioned writers—I will rise like a phoenix above all of you, but if—in the meantime—you could help me out with a connection or an internship or just spit in my face quickly, that would be awesome. Let me, readers, be your new literary best friend. Not your real best friend, because I’m a lot to handle. Also that’s a lot of commitment, and I’m not looking for anything serious right now.

Signing off now, your very own Carrie Bradshaw, your very own “Sad and the Pity.”

Humor, Life, Rambles

FRATTY FIFTEEN

I’m not going to lie to you guys—I didn’t dress up as Bob Belcher from Bob’s Burgers for Halloween. I was totally going to, but I put on the t-shirt and sweatpants and looked down at myself and felt so acutely un-cute that I was like, “Errrr.” And then I was in my kitchen and my flatmate comes in and he asked me what I was doing for Halloween and I told him and then he asked me when I was getting into my costume.

“I am in my costume,” I stare at him.

He stares back at me. Eyes flick down to the sweatpants. “Oh. I thought you were in pajamas.”

I wordlessly scream at him.

So I decided to put on a pair of black skinny jeans, draw a tombstone on my shirt and write “My Dream” above it. I was going to write out “My Dreams” but I’m not good at planning and—frankly—I ran out of space. And then on top of that, I painted my face like a skull.

Really, I’ve never looked better.

So for Halloween this year, I went as “My Dreams Are Dead!”

“Oh!” My mom shrieked a little bit when I showed her my make-up.

I felt bad for ditching my original costume, but I didn’t feel that bad because it’s not an actual person and even if it was, I have difficulty processing emotions. So. On Actual Halloween I went to a club with a DJ who insisted on playing The Worst Of The ‘80s and then we waited in line for almost two hours to go to this really fancy 24-hour restaurant on the 40^th floor of a downtown London skyscraper to have duck confit and waffle and by the time I got home it was 5:30 am and even now everything is fuzzy. On Fake Halloween—aka Friday—aka the Beginning of Halloweekend—

Side bar: I fucking hate when people say Halloweekend even though I used it this weekend but I’m allowed to (ironically, obviously)

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Danny + Jenny 4NEVER

—I went on a pub crawl in a ~hip~ and ~cool~ part of London called Shoreditch and I was a sexy lumberjack—short khaki shorts that I cuffed even higher on my pale thighs; red flannel shirt unbuttoned almost to my bellybutton; gray beanie—but to make it ~spooky~ I painted on a slit throat because I wanted to add depth to my performance. It was very well received. People were very attracted to me. Rightly. Interestingly enough, people were less attracted to me when I was a skeleton, even though my entire mug was completely covered in paint. Weird.

*****

Speaking of ugly mugs, I was looking through pictures of people I went to high school with. AYOOOO WHAT A SEGUE. No there is really something very satisfying and emotionally vindicating about going through the photos of people from high school and being able to decide whether or not they’ve gotten worse-looking or not.

I was talking to a guy I went to high school with; we were friends but more friendly but friends but also I think we were both a little bit of a bitch in high school and that really bonds two people. My friend—let’s call him Lucas—also likes dudes so we were dishing and there is something very satisfying about talking to someone from my high school—all boys—about boys. I was grilling him about his hot friends. He wasn’t grilling me about mine because I was the hottest friend. And then we just started looking at the guys we went to high school with.

Some of them have gained what I call the “Fratty Fifteen” where you join a fraternity, drink enough beer to feed/drown an Amish village, and gain fifteen pounds in your neck/face area, and also I’m hotter than you. Side effects of the Fratty Fifteen also include a beer gut and a superiority complex inherited by me. So yeah, a bunch of them look like forty-year-old dads and I am living for it.

Still stings. Just kidding I’m fine. I have no pride or dignity.

Of course there’s the guys who have gotten way hotter since high school but those I just make into voodoo dolls for later. Halloween may be over but being a witchy bitch is year-round. It was nice to connect to him. Lucas, if you’re reading this, you go girl! And if you can’t figure out if I’m talking about you, dafuq dude? Seriously?

*****

white ppl, amiright?

With the advent of a new month, I have done away with all of my Halloween social media fixings. For my laptop wallpaper, I went with a simple Pinterest-y background. I try to find something funny for my wallpaper, like “Hocus Pocus and Chill” but nothing really funny happens in November and Thanksgiving isn’t really funny because of the Trail of Tears and smallpox and just generally white people and also feeling fat, so I decided to go for the “pretty” route.

@thedanosaurus #shamelesspromo

For my Facebook and Twitter headers, I went for a “Queens of Cooking” theme and did Ina Garten for my Twitter, and my Kween Kris Jenner on the kover of her kookbook. Also, why has Kris Jenner not released a holiday-themed cookbook and called it “Merry Krismas?” Like I don’t want to do the job of her marketing team, but come on people the opportunity is shaking its tits in your face. Metaphorically, of course.

@KrisJenner, let’s talk about “Merry Krismas”? Call me?

My phone background is currently Kris Jenner and Ina Garten as well, but that’s more of a placeholder until I find something else. I change my phone background more than Kylie Jenner changes wigs—

*Holds for canned audience applause and knocks on my microphone—“Is this thing on?”*

—and it really depends on my mood.

Side bar: it took me a solid five minutes of minute adjustment to get these photos centered. So be happy. S/o to Shelby. Ily and our joint love of artisanal glass-blown dildos. And that’s not the only thing being blown. AYOO I’ll leave.

*****

I went grocery shopping today and bought more donuts. I regret nothing. I regret some things. But not this. Never this.

*****

P.S. I look so chiseled as a skeleton.

Okay bye!

Xoxo Gossip Squirrel

I want to get this to 1000 words, so imagine that Gossip Girl was actually a squirrel.

Life, Rambles

YOU’RE BAD AT PICKING PEOPLE

You have a crush on someone. You fantasize about the way they say your name, the way it lingers on their lips and the curve of their tongue. You think of silly ways to bump into them. You count the moments you spend together. Every word is a story; every pause is a space to drop your coat and bask in them.

You create a version of them that is so complete and full that it’s impossible to realize that it’s not them until you are confronted with two people with mirrored faces.

And then small reasons crop up. They’re too good-looking. They’re too good. They’re too nosy. They eat in a weird way. You stop yourself from leaping. You retreat. You pick people that you don’t have to leap for.

You pick people that come with instruction manuals and lists of reasons why they can’t love you. They’re tens and you’re sevens, and you’re bad at math. It’s a fraction that won’t balance. It’s them too smart and you too dumb. It’s them too goody and you too damaged. It’s them fractious and you whole. It’s a litany. It’s a memoir of reasons and buts and if only and when and then you’re alone in your room and you’re breathing a sigh of relief for having avoided the chasm and that deep descent.

You pick people who have reasons baked into them, so that when it falls apart and they can’t commit and you can’t leap, you are able to validate what you felt all along. You are not enough. You are not good enough at math to bridge that gap. Sevens are prime; they cannot fit with anything. They are the lowest. Tens are whole and bendy and bouncy. Sevens are prickly. Sevens are unlovable. Sevens are sharp.

You pick people that are mountains, and you try to scale them in flip-flops. You set yourself up to fail, and when you’re lying at the bottom of the mountain nursing the bloody smiley scrapes on your arms, you bask in the pain. You bask in the safe comfort of knowing that you are fractious. That you are a bomb with no pin.

I have no answer. I don’t know why we—me—pick people that come with bibles of reasons. Holy, unanswerable, unmovable reasons. I don’t know why we are programmed to self-destruct. I’m sure if I had a few hours on a couch in the click of a therapist, I could figure it out. I don’t know why we crave dysfunction, pain, negative validation. I don’t know why we—me—crave the inverse, crave the dark, crave the fall. But I know that there is something satisfying in the fall. In the pain. It is finite. It is common. It is known. It ends and it begins in cycle, but it ends. For a while.

You need to pick people who don’t come with reasons. Who are void of self-destruction manuals. Pick people that are grossly ready for you. Pick people who are unassuming and prime numbers. Pick tens who are grounded. Fuck math. Math never got you anywhere. Leap into primes and fractions and fuck everything and everyone that tells you that some things will never add up.

But you need to stop trying to scale mountains in flip-flops. Because you’re better than the fall. You’re better than blood and scrapes. You need to believe that. Because until you do, you’ll be stuck picking defective relationships. You’ll be stuck in a cycle of negative validation, swirling until you’re too fucked up to function.

Pick people that smile at you slipping. Pick people that make you feel comfortable enough to eat in front of. Pick people who don’t make you collect words in your mouth like marbles. Pick people that make the words fall out onto sun-warmed stone. Be sun-warmed stone. Be soft. Be mutable. Be fluid. Pick yourself up. Pick yourself flowers. Pick yourself.

Stop picking pain over pleasure. Stop picking the finite of your own fucked-up-ness. Stop stopping yourself. Leap. Fly. Fall. But do it for someone who has the capacity to leap too. I don’t know how to see that person. I’m fucked up. But I can hope that one day I won’t see the reasons not and start seeing the green lights. I can hope that one day we can figure it out and not wish for the fall and the pain.

That’s the hope.

Humor, Life

SAD STRIPPER

I’m sure there’s some deep, psychologically scarring reason for this, but I completely bro out whenever I talk to Straight Guys. And I’m not talking straight guys. I’m talking “Loves Golf, Will Date A Blonde But Marry A Brunette, Lunches At The Club and Knows What A 401(k) Is” capital Straight Guys.

Side bar: I had to look up how to write 401(k). Apparently it is not 401K. Who knew?

Case in point, whenever I see the Straight Guys on my floor, I immediately bark, “Sup, bro?” and my internal monologue is just, What am I doing? Why am I fist-bumping him right now? What’s happening? And it just spirals from there.

*****

Last night, I went out to the local university’s bar because I thought there was going to be a cute boy there but there wasn’t, and instead it was just me and people and Jenny and Jenny’s new friend who is the cooler, gayer version of me, right now to the fact that we wear the same model and brand of glasses. Anyway, we were all dancing and 2.0—the Cooler Gay Guy—was doing that dance where it’s like a sexy librarian, all smooth hips but classy and restrained.

And I tried to copy him a little because I actually can’t dance, so I just imitate whoever I’m dancing near, but my moves are generally so malformed that the two dances don’t even resemble each other.

The Sexy Librarian isn’t working so I switch to an Ole Faithful.

“Watch me do the Sad Stripper!” I scream at Jenny and 2.0, and begin to dance provocatively, all while screwing my face into a baby bawl. As my face violently sobs, my booty drops it low and picks it back up again. And again. And again.

Big finale!

Keeping my legs in a triangle, an Eiffel Tower if you will—

Side bar: Not the sex act.

—I bend into an acute angle, my face roughly level with my ankles, and all of a sudden I slip in a puddle of beer and my right foot rockets away from the rest of my body. My legs go so far apart that they’re not even separated, they’re divorced, and I topple forwards, landing hard on the ground.

“Was that part of the dance?” Jenny asks.

“Um, no, that wasn’t,” I confirm.

My toe rapidly swelling inside my Vans, I decide that this night has been long enough and I decide to trek back home.

As I reflect over the night, while limping slightly and powerwalking to Kanye West’s “POWER,” I think that I maybe should’ve been nicer to 2.0. I wasn’t outright rude, I was just a little frosty, and asserted my dominance like a dog peeing on a lawn. In this case, Jenny is the lawn, and I am peeing on her. I’m sticking with this metaphor.

He’s just a little too similar to me, but in the worst ways. Like, I bet he never falls down the stairs while Tweeting. Or has back sweat that could solve California’s drought. Or pulls clothes out of the hamper and gives them a whore’s bath—spritz them with cologne—and wear them out to Da Club. It’s like what I imagine having an older brother to be like. I only have sisters, and I’m the favorite out of the three of us.

I’m sure that if I actually knew him, I would like him, but I’m immature and he’s a poopyface so I think I’ll pass. Also I look better in the glasses. I’m kidding. Actually I’m not sure.

*****

I really don’t know how to interact with other people in social settings. It’s weird, because sometimes I completely nail it like a carpenter or a nail technician and everyone loves me and other times it’s like the Hindenburg had a social media account and no social cues.

See, that was offensive. To blimps. I’m not winning anything today.

Bye.

P.S. I’ve been reading a lot of “fashion” blogs recently and they’re very ~professional~ and don’t curse nearly as much as I do and that’s very ~unprofessional~ of me so can I do anything right? Or will I be forever destined to be the Sad Stripper at dances?

Life

EW, YOU’RE BECOMING AN ADULT

It starts slowly. A trip taken by yourself. Paying for that cute bomber jacket with money that you earned at your job. And then it gets bigger. You start cooking for yourself. You buy plane tickets by yourself. You can remember things that happened five years ago.

Suddenly, you’re standing in front of a stovetop in Venice, stirring spaghetti and making sure it’s the perfect amount of al dente because that’s important to you, and realizing that this might be a moment that you tell your kids, or your cat, about in twenty years. When you were a twenty-year-old with wild hair, bare feet against cold linoleum in a rented apartment that you think is quaint but will probably realize later looks a little bit like a very upscale prison, cooking pasta and burning the pancetta.

And you realize that five years ago, you were fifteen, and you were just as cognizant as you are now. Because five years before that, you were ten and you couldn’t cross the road without getting hit by a goddamn car.

And you realize that your friends are seniors and juniors in college, and they’re all getting “jobs” and you have an internship where no one tells you when not to have your phone or when to take your lunch break. And that’s scary.

Because you’re still a kid. You still eat ice cream out of the carton and leap-frog across the white stripes of the crosswalk. You still can’t decide how exactly planes stay up in the air because how the goddamn fuck does a giant metal soda can with wings fly in the sky and why aren’t we calling that magic? You still haven’t registered to vote, but you’ve registered for the draft. You can drive a car, but you can never remember if milk cartons are recycled or just thrown out.

You realize that the daydreams of yesterday are the reality of tomorrow and suddenly you’ll have to start thinking about what it is you might do with your life, and that makes you really want to watch Netflix in bed forever.

I went to the first day of my internship today. For the first hour, I didn’t even touch my phone. I was afraid to. I thought that someone would tell me to stop. Then I began tentatively checking an email. And then I realized that no one really cares what I’m doing unless I’m doing my job and doing it well. And then I realized that I’m doing a job.

I went to the supermarket after work. I made a grocery list. I daydreamed about what I was going to cook with my kale. Peppers. I’m going to cook peppers with my kale.

I like getting older because I looked tragic in high school and I’m finally starting to look cute—maybe next year I’ll hit a second puberty and pull some sort of Duckling-Swan thing (unlikely)—but today was the first day where I was like, “Wait, I’m living a real, human person life, and that’s gross.” So I’m in a little bit of a upward spiral. It’s upward because technically this is a good thing, but it’s a spiral because I have a weak stomach and a propensity towards motion sickness on amusement park rides.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that just because someone graduates college or has a job or pays “bills” doesn’t mean that they’re an adult. Because I don’t know if I want to be an adult. Adults can’t throw temper tantrums because that’s just called anger issues. Adults can’t lie around all day and eat Maltesers because they have to earn money. So I want to be an adult but also a kid and also a teen, but not a tween because that was a gross time for me. Truly, truly, a gross time.

Age doesn’t make you an adult. Responsibility makes you an adult. So I plan on avoiding that like the plague. Which I also avoid.

Inspirational, Life

HOW TO BE GAY

Being gay is really hard because how do you be gay? And by you I mean me. I don’t think it’s a well-kept secret that I am high-key intimidated by other gay guys because I feel like they’re so much better at being gay than me. But what does that even mean?

I never kissed a boy until I was 18. I never went on a date until college. I have never had a real, adult, full-fledged relationship.

I came out when I was fifteen to my parents, but didn’t tell my friends until sixteen, and the wider world until eighteen. When I was in high school, I was fighting against the Puritanical rigors of high school at a Catholic all boys institution. When I got to college, I was suddenly in this world where I wasn’t fighting for recognition. No one really cared. I was like, “I’M GAY WORLD,” and everyone was like, “Yeah okay, can you keep it down? It’s quiet hours,” and I was like, “Oh okay sorry, so sorry.”

So here’s how you be gay.

1). You stop caring. You stop trying to compare yourself to other gay guys, other straight guys; just other people. You stop counting the dates you’ve been on or haven’t been on. You stop worrying about the “gay voice.”

When someone told me that they didn’t clock me as gay because I didn’t sound gay, I was almost reverse offended. When I was younger, my voice was outrageous and explosive and expressive. It entered the room before I did. That “gay voice” that I hated so much as a kid, forced me to be who I am today.

2). Ask out whoever you goddamn want. This is really hard, because I am a serial psycho when it comes to asking people out. I wait and wonder and wilt until the last second before asking someone out. I almost get a perverse pleasure out of people saying no, because deep down it fulfills the dark feelings I have of not being good enough. It validates me and strangles me. So stop worrying about getting rejected. Stop thinking that you’re not cute enough or thin enough or muscular enough or clever enough or funny enough.

3). Educate yourself. Being gay is a gift because you are awakened to the struggles of other oppressed people. Being gay is also a gift because sometimes you’re able to “pass” as straight. It’s a privilege that other people of our community, trans men and women and gender non-conforming people, don’t always have. So recognize your privilege, and educate yourself to the struggle of others. Our eyes are opened to the wider world, but we need to do something about it.

4). Have fun. People always wonder why I don’t like scary movies. I like comedies because life is enough of a drag. Be light. Take joy in the small things. Take joy in the victories. Utilize self-care. Love yourself. Have a blast.

5). Don’t worry about fulfilling expectations. I oscillate a lot between feeling like I need to be super outgoing and be making out with boys and going on dates and trying to buck stereotypes and just be the opposite of what everyone thinks gay guys should be. I am gay, but sexuality should not be your first and foremost. Create your life as a fully fleshed out person, not with the expectations of other people in mind. I am a late-bloomer; I am emotionally unprepared sometimes for deep relationships. And that’s not a bad thing. I am exercising self-care and putting my needs before my desire to please others.

Being gay is hard because there’s no rulebook. There is no “norm.” Be gentle with yourself. Run your hands gently over your scars. We’re all scarred.

But you have a choice on how you deal with your scars and your past and your future. So don’t be afraid to fuck up and fall on your face and be goofy and be sexy and be confident. Because that’s the whole point of being twenty and young and vivacious.

Life, Rambles

SPOOKY SPOOKY

So technically it’s past midnight here in the UK, which means I’ll be posting this on a Tuesday technically but the majority of my audience is American so really I didn’t miss anything and you’re welcome.

Today was a bit of an odd day. I woke up at eleven, wrote an exam paper, ate chicken nuggets and then watched Halloweentown. I also changed the background on my laptop. And along the way, I discovered myself.

Just kidding, but I did realize these things.

1). Halloweentown has a number of alarming plot holes that I didn’t realize as a twelve-year-old.

2). I wish I were a kid again and not overanalyze old Halloween movies.

3). I am incapable of being cute in front of cute boys.

4). I can’t wall-twerk. But I guess I could figured that out on my own.

Okay, end of blog.

…

Just kidding, I’m going to explain. First, why did Agatha not put the sorcery orb thing into the pumpkin first? Also why if Marnie didn’t become a witch, does that mean that she would live only to like 80 years old, unlike her grandmother who is like 1000? How old is Marnie’s mom? Is Sophie possessed by the devil? Why is it a goddamn bus that takes the people from Earth to Halloweentown? Are there other Halloweentowns? Is it a full world? WHY DID THEY REPLACE MARNIE WITH SARA PAXTON? NEVER FORGET.

As a twenty-year-old watching Halloweentown on a Monday night while eating Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton with a large tablespoon, I guess I wasn’t as mesmerized as its target audience: twelve-year-olds. But I wish I was as easily entertained as I once was. I want to relive Halloweentown and not immediately think, “Hallowieners.”

I was writing my exam paper in the school library, so after writing 1000 words, I decided to reward myself with some tea. While I was leaving, my new friend—hmm—Jess told me that there was free pizza in the lounge. I shoved her out of my way and stormed up the stairs.

One hand holding my tea, I unhinged my jaw and stuffed two slices of pizza into my mouth. I decided to go back to the library, so I walked slowly down the stairs and ate my pizza. However, I wasn’t done when I got back to the library, so I hovered outside for a second gnawing on my food before eating enough of the pizza to kind of hide it behind my phone. I have the iPhone 6.

Once past the librarians, I stuff the pizza back into my mouth, one hand holding tea and the other hand holding my phone. Just as I cram the pizza into my fat slob mouth, I walk past a really cute boy. Let’s call him Patagonia. He is very white.

“Hi,” Patagonia does that almost silent hi.

I grunt around the pizza in my mouth a word that was supposed to be “Hi” but really ended up sounding like “Gugghsh” like a seal gulping down a fish at the aquarium.

Like, there are days when I shower and shave and pick out an outfit and comb my hair—okay, that part is a lie, I don’t comb my hair—and wash my face. I never see cuties on days like that. No, it’s days when I haven’t showered for 36 hours or shaved in four days, and am wearing a Beyonce lyric sweatshirt and a beanie and have pizza sticking out of my mouth that I run into anyone remotely hot.

Lastly, I twerked against the wall to the Halloweentown ending credits. I’m not proud, but I’m also not not proud. It took me SO long to figure out how to get you guys the video, so hopefully the link below works! And werks! And twerks! And I’ll stop now.

[Twerking to Halloweentown]

Finally, like Norman Rockwell always used to say, “I really want a hot dog right now.”

Lol this post isn’t great. But who cares. It’s free content, fuckers.

BYE! HAPPY HALLOWIENERS!!

The Wunderkindof

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

Category Archives: Life

I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS

I’M YOUR PROBLEMATIC FAVE—LISTENING TO CHRISTMAS MUSIC

OCCUPATION: SINGLE

THE ONE WHERE I WRITE LIKE CARRIE BRADSHAW

FRATTY FIFTEEN

YOU’RE BAD AT PICKING PEOPLE

SAD STRIPPER

EW, YOU’RE BECOMING AN ADULT

HOW TO BE GAY

SPOOKY SPOOKY