college, Humor, Life


Written after wearing a NASA baseball cap in Starbucks and running into a guy wearing an (acid-washed, but we all make mistakes) NASA t-shirt and saying goodbye to him as my “NASA buddy”. In related news, I’m planning a spring wedding, space-themed.  

I’m sitting on a bench in front of my college, having just ordered a “grande cold brew, with an espresso shot. Light ice” in a high, irritating voice, because if my drink order is going to be complicated as fuck, then I might as well go the full mile. Also, I didn’t get it sweetened because I firmly believe that if your order requires three specifications or more, you’re outing yourself to the world as a potential serial killer. I also put “three” because I’m trying to conceal the fact that I’m a potential serial killer for as long as possible.

I had my first “Zen Meditation” class today, and besides the mortal fear of farting into the silence, I actually found it to be a really interesting experience. We sat like pretzels—srry for appropriating dough culture—we laid down and listened to music, and we talked about shit like “being okay with mental discomfort” and finding more value in the “question, rather than the answer.” Because once you have an answer, you put yourself into a tiny little box and you die.

As I was telling my friend Shelby—remember that salty old bitch?—I feel like a lot of things in my life are getting together and producing a cosmic neon sign about my life. That’s such a millennial thing to think, by the way, that all the forces of the universe are cooperating to send some dickhead blogger a message about his post-graduate aspirations (asspirations, amiright hahaihatemyself). But let me back up.

Here are the signs the universe has been sending me (at the low low cost of $0.99 per text).


1). Zen Meditation: Our teacher (professor? Shaman? Medicine man? Witch?) told us a lot of mdeditation is not following every thought and letting ourselves immerse in the murkiness of the unknown. He didn’t say it as eloquently as that, but I’m embellishing. So much of life is unknown, but the more you worry about it, the more you suck away at the present and lose life. Rough. Rough stuff.

2). Chelsea: I’ve been watching a lot of Chelsea Handler, and she was interviewed by Ashly Perez of BuzzFeed (wow, Microsoft Word recognizes “Ashly” but not “BuzzFeed”), and basically just talked about pursuing what you’re passionate about. That’s an easy thing for a multimillionaire to say, but she brought up Sophia Amoruso, the founder of Nasty Gal. Amoruso started out dumpster-diving for vintage stuff and selling it on eBay. She followed her passion for vintage clothing and it led somewhere lucrative. Doing things purely for money leads you to glassy-eyed, dead-souled hell.

As a graduating senior, the idea of following your dreams is scary as hell, and often gets masked by the need for “job security” and a “healthy income” and a “401k” (idk I think there’s a period in there somewhere but who knows?). our parents want to see returns on the investment they made, and so we feel this pressure (external and internal) to prove that the last four years have resulted in something.

3). Blerg: I’m taking a beat reporting class, and we had to do “mock-interviews” with a partner, research that partner online and then turn that interview into a 100-word profile. Mine was fucking well-written, and my partner discovered my fat whale of a blog. When people discover my blog, I treat it like an entertaining, but stupid, child of mine. Like I’m proud that it’s made you laugh, but I don’t want you to delve too deeply into it and see what I’ve done wrong. In the profile done on me, my interviewer said that I was “hesitant to label myself a journalist” (true) but that I had a lot to say (very fucking true). Part of my weirdness about school is that I’m not a very “journalist-y” journalist. Unbiased reporting bores me. I like drama, I like weirdness, I like being funny. I have no interest in being impartial, or ferreting out the “story.” So to have someone see my blog, arguably the most raw/polished online representation of myself, and ask what I wanted to do for a career, felt a little bit like someone bursting into me taking a shower and asking me what I planned to do about my problem areas.



The interview thing happened before the Zen thing, so I feel like the universe heard my question of “Da fuck am I supposed to do” and answered with “idk but chill out dude.” Technically the question is supposed to be more important than the answer, and I’m not supposed to be comfortable in answers, so maybe the universe actually didn’t answer me, or it was a wrong number. But I’m going to take it as my own.

I don’t have any direction. I don’t have any goal. But I know what I’m good at. And if the universe/Chelsea Handler has made one thing clear, it’s that that’s what I should focus on. Following what drives my passion, what I’m good at, and finding solace in that. And trusting in that.

Did this make any sense? Should it make any sense? Maybe I should pretend that the reason it’s all rambling is because it’s actually elevated thinking and it’s not supposed to make sense and then it seems like I’m smarter than you. Yeah, I’m gonna do that. Just ignore that train of thought and focus on the fact that I’m smarter than you. Much smarter.

In related news, what do you think the Universe thinks of the iPhone 7? Do you think it’s a matte-black or jet-black kind of bitch? What kind of bitch am I? Will I ever be confident enough to get a jet-black phone? Or will I forever float in the safety of silver?

Also I can’t wait for all the horrible monster-gays to decide what phone means what sexual preference you are. I don’t even know if they updated the chart (cuz there’s definitely a chart) for the inclusion of Rose Gold. If anyone says the gays are beasts, they’re totally fucking right.

Omg I just saw someone I have a crush on and I need to look hotter but I don’t. Fuck my life.

Humor, Life, pop culture, Rambles


Written while having bad skin.

I don’t want to be dramatic, is something I say to myself and others before I go off. I won’t even say it now, because I want to remain cool and calm and collected, and foreshadowing a blog post with “I don’t want to be dramatic” just mentally gives me the go-ahead to rant. And I’m above that, frankly.

I’m about to head back to school. I have officially turned 21 (#twentyfun). I’m living life large, but also small because I’m so thin, and also medium because I can speak with the dead. But as I’m going back, I have to start reacquainting myself with my peers and my piers (Boston is a river city), and that means reacquainting myself with Fakesters (Fake Hipsters, but I can’t think of a wittier amalgam, so fucking sue me. Also like you even fucking know what an amalgam is).

To the casual basique onlooker, I might be generally confused (slightly) for a hipster. I’m gay (very against the mainstream), I wear a lot of sweaters, I make strong references, and I’m an English major (hipster boner city because if I’ve listened to one New Balance-wearing wannabe discussing 1800s English poets, I’ve listened to a thousand). However, I’m also deeply invested in the welfare of the Kardashian-Jenners, I don’t own an antique printing press, and my iPod nano has since lost all charge because I retired it in 2009 like the humanitarian I am.

However, when you dance the dirty tango with Hipsterdom, that means that you come into contact with A) real hipsters (which I can’t even) and B) Fakesters (which are like real hipsters but infinitely more insufferable). Look, I get it. Everyone gets caught up in trends. The ‘90s are back, hunny, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. HOWFUCKINGEVER, I can’t handle it when people take things a little too far.

I’ve been watching Friends recently and besides the very problematic lack of queer or black people, it’s been cute. It’s also been hauntingly familiar because everything that all the characters wear is something that I’ve seen on a classmate. Crop tops, oversized flannels, a simple boot. We’re jonesing for the ‘90s bad. Which is cool. Which is fine. But there are some things that cross the fucking line.

I was on Snapchat and I was scrolling through people’s Stories—muted—when I came across the Snapchat of a not friend-friend (like, we’re “friends” but I wouldn’t eat in front of her) and she has Snapchatted her listening to a circa-2007 iPod classic. So let’s break down this situation. You think it’s fucking hipster and alternative to listen to an iPod classic (no h8, don’t send me your letters, iPod classic stans) and document on a modern social media app with YOUR FUCKING IPHONE 6S. If you’re going to commit and make me seem like an asshole millennial, then you don’t get to use a goddamn iPhone. Go back to a corded housephone, you monster. And I say this with a lot of love and also if the person who did this ever finds this blog, I just want you to know that I don’t hate you, please don’t spit at me.

I can handle the Tumblr freaks and the mirror selfies and the acid-washed mom jeans. I can handle them because I am them. But I can’t handle blatant and (frankly) dangerous behavior. You’re not edgy. There’s a reason why we don’t use the iPod classic anymore. And that reason is because we have fucking iPhones, which you know, you fakester.

This might seem harsh, but let me reason with you. I deal with fakesters a lot: I go to an urban school in a fairly liberal city. And a lot of me being a mainstream, trendy motherfucker led me to feeling like an idiot. I felt like I was stupid in the face of these “edgy” people, like I was a phony or a total basic for liking the things I like. The people who are so stuffed to the gills with ennui that they’re choking on irony. I’ve learned to cope and ferret out my own internal reasons for feeling inferior.

But I can’t deal with fakery. I can’t handle peers who go thrift-shopping with their parents’ credit cards, who have political opinions but aren’t registered to vote, who have answers to questions they don’t understand. I can handle the slight narcissism that comes with being a hipster and going anti-trend. I even respect it sometimes. But I can’t handle full-on bullshit. You’re not indie. You’re not edgy. You can be you and do your thing and wear chokers and I can do my thing and read Daily Mail, but let’s not pretend that we’re any different. At the end of the day, we’re both trendy millennial fuckers. And that’s okay. Because that’s the way it should be.