Farewell Blogspot.

This is my last blog post here, fare thee well blogspot. Perhaps we shall meet again, but I sincerely doubt it. In the meantime, check out my blog and copywriting portfolio at:

www.sarah-sol.com

Whenever I think of "The Factory Store" child laborers immediately come to mind.

I've officially done it. Through the scholarly trials and tribulations of my hangover paired with arguing with my little brother via his facebook status, I have done the impossible.

It's taken me years, nay lifetimes in the metaphorical sense, but I have achieved what I was put on G-d's green Earth to do.

The official definition for "Living The Dream" is as follows:

Doing whatever the fuck you want with a pretentious attitude and disregard of long term consequences. Pair with a fabulous vocabulary and wardrobe for best results.

I'd like my Peace Prize mailed to me, I would accept it in person but haven't a thing to wear.

This term has been going well thus far, for my print advertising final I'm doing an Emily Post-esque etiquette and style book as a mailer for J Crew Wedding. Needless to say I'm a little excited, but disappointed that it has to be on-brand. Read: minimal sarcasm.

I just checked out the online J Crew Factory Store, and I feel like I was let down. Those bastards threw last seasons clothes on there for a slight discount and put "Factory" at the beginning of each discriminately named piece of clothing. I never understood why they would name it "The Annalise Shawl Collar Cardigan" or some utter nonesense like that. I picture this Annalise to be very thin, blonde, and desperately trying to pop her shawl collar. Yet it's all in vain.

I would love to be the person to name said articles of clothing. I think it would be a great marketing ploy to bluntly name each item. For example, The I got some useless English degree from a well regarded liberal arts school but my tits are what landed me this job cocktail dress or the I may be a horrible person but at least I'm not wearing jorts seersucker trousers and finally the I'm making up for my ridiculously undersized junk with this conceited attitude blazer.

Unfortunately this is the stuff of what my dreams are made of. Aim high kids.

Uncle Gary: this is an intervention.

I have a sick and twisted beige fetish. I don't understand it either, it's a terribly boring color but it goes extremely well with black and the majority of my wardrobe. (insert terribly trite soul and/or heart joke here)

The color itself exudes a shitload of class. When I think of beige, brands like Burberry or icons like Jackie O. come to mind. No wonder it can even make sluts and the homeless look somewhat sophisticated.

However, with all prior reasoning aside, I was extremely disappointed with GAP's spring 2011 ready to wear collection. There's only so much beige one person can handle before they begin to question their own sanity and go on a seafood and gin binge. (I'm looking at you Uncle Gary)

The only piece that really stood out to me was this white shift dress, which looks like it could have been ripped off the BCBG spring runway show.
What truly blew my mind was Talbots spring collection. I had previously thought that store was purely for the menopausal or those who had forsaken their grandchildren for a horde of belligerent cats all named after British royalty. Apparently the store is doing a complete re-branding and style make-over to try and win over a younger set.

For example, this coral dress is adorable and simply to die for. It even has a high enough neckline so people will acknowledge me by name.
This skirt makes me really happy, and allows me to look forward to the day when I can do yuppie things instead of degenerate college student things. However I feel like not much will change. Maybe my funneling skills will improve.

I can't get over the color of this skirt paired with the belt and the shoes. It makes me want to ride a bike along the Seine with fresh cut flowers, a baguette, and wine in the little bike basket. Needless to say there would be streamers attached to said bike, along with a horn and possibly training wheels. In case you couldn't infer, I haven't touched a bike since single digits.



The shrunken cardigan paired with the contrasting heels and hangover sunglasses is tres chic. I could see myself bumming around West Philly in something like this with flats so I don't look like the Jolly Jew giant. This is the perfect dress. You could be a complete walking train wreck with a Four Loko in each hand and still be forgiven because you look so damn classy. I own a long sleeved version of this but haven't been given an opportunity to wear it. I'm waiting for the day when I truly fuck up and desperately need forgiveness. I'm assuming it will be video-chatting my parents at some point, explaining why I haven't been allowed to graduate with only a few months left to go.

"Tell us why you refused to take your women's studies requirement again?"

"Because I already know how to make a damn sandwich."

G-d bless America.

Even after all my bitching I stil listen to the song.

I don't know how I feel about Rihanna's and Eminem's second installment to Love the Way You Lie. It was in poor taste for Rihanna to agree to the first song after the whole Chris Brown fiasco, but I realize the flashing dollar sign is more of an incentive than fleeting morality. However, to do a second one is fucked up, especially from the subservient and masochistic girlfriends point of view.

One line stuck with me in particular:

but you’ll always be my hero/ even though you’ve lost your mind.

I am in no way, shape, or form a feminist, but didn't he talk about tying you to a bed and setting the house on fire? That's not romantic- that's called settling.

Whether she likes it or not, Rihanna is a twisted role model for some poor schmuck out there in an abusive relationship. And that schmuck is probably making this song her anthem, and latching onto some clandestine excuse as to why she should stay in her fucked up misery. Because now it can be poetically associated with martyrdom thanks to a white rapper and some chick wearing hot pants. A million thank you's.

I wonder if they'll bring back Megan Fox and Domenic Monaghan back for the second video, although I was puzzled as to why she would be taking abuse from a hobbit. She has dealt with far, far worse. (Autobots anyone?)


At least I have Adam Lambert for a role model. If you haven't been so blessed to see the "If I Had You" video you must you tube it right now. It's gay Twilight on speed.

Happy Things.

Because there's no better way to nurse a hangover than wasting precious time on Tumblr you will never get back, I thought I'd share some of my digital "happy places."

Emerson Made


Clothes and accessories for the life you wish you could lead as the fabulous looking local drunk who bums around her quaint New England town. Kind of like Gilmore Girls without the fast talking and early pregnancies. I'm positively in love with this clutch, I think it
would not only bump my wardrobe up a couple of points, but make me into a better person as well.

J Crew


It's Disneyworld for the preppy. I haven't seen them screw up yet, and I don't think they can. Even these super Republican necklaces are adorable. Those crafty conservatives...attempting to take away our rights, yet accessorizing so well while they do it. Speaking of super adorable, Jon Stewart's and Steven Colbert's Rally for Sanity and/or Fear was yesterday. I was supposed to go, but Halloween trumps all. I honestly wasn't that impressed with it, but the amount of people that cared enough to show up was simply amazing.

Cast TV



This is only on here because it's the site where I watch Madmen. How melodramatic is this season four promo shot of Betty Draper? They managed to capture her solitude and self-loathing so eloquently. I know we're supposed to hate her, but I think she's by far the most interesting character on the show. I may have also been the only one who was rooting for the secretary that ultimately ended up marrying Don. She's young, she's hot, and she knows what she's doing. You go girl!


This has no purpose, it just amused me. Happy Halloween!

Sometimes I regret sucking at design.

My largest problem with Graphic Design is the craft and precision of it. I am naturally a messy person, and my cutting boards, tools, and gluing skills are a reflection of that. To add to the futility of it, my worst trait is how I'm arguably inclined to not care about something if I don't naturally excel at it. This has been exemplified through years of failing at gymnastics, ballet, tennis, sailing, or even just working on my weak wrists and ankles. (In my defense, I am part British)

While I am not jealous of the mind-numbing amount of hours I have seen my roommate and classmates work on their paper sculptures and packaging projects, I am envious of their end results. To put it simply their projects are fucking beautiful and I wish I could even attempt such a feat. However, because I chose to take glorious advertising and writing courses I get to bastardize some of my favorite brands in its stead. And as we all know, the creative process is best stimulated through cheap alcohol and living in your own delusions of grandeur. Two things I've got totally under control.

I just get a little sad whenever I see the epic work of Rob Ryan, or the Etsy shop of Mr. Yen. Paperwork is beautiful and I can only aspire to have a cut-out masterpiece of my own someday. My tawdry and collegiate whitewashed walls only currently contain my assholish-photoshop renderings I either made for class or for fun while intoxicated.

But Sarah, why did you put a hamster on an Absolut Ad?
Because it's fucking adorable.
Yes I get that, but why did you have to put it in your portfolio?

...Because it was either that or Abe Lincoln talking about railing bar wenches. Oh wait, that's in there too. Thank G-d I know I'm not working in design after that mythical day they call "graduation."

Just to prove I'm not screwing around all the time, here's a bit of my (yet to be approved) thesis I wrote today. I'm essentially going to design a book I'm currently writing, on top of the mountain of classes I plan on taking, and writing the scripts for Drexel's talk show. Luckily I always have my secret weapon...insomnia.

This is a short excerpt from my food chapter, discussing yours and my favorite pastime: snacking.

You can’t get through your day on a three paltry meals, hopes, dreams, and barbituates alone. You’re probably going to want some fruit salad as well.

Snacking has always been a dangerous pastime, like freefalling or day drinking. You just don’t know how or when to stop. One chip turns into five, then half the bag, then you’re hysterically scrubbing the orange cheesy dye off your hands like you just committed a murder. You’re not Lady Macbeth, and washing away the evidence still won’t help the size of your thighs.

If you need your chip and dip fix, don’t be afraid to waste dishes and set aside pre-measured portions. Keep in mind the portions should be considerably smaller than a feeding trough. Living the dream isn’t funneling onion dip into your mouth: it’s fitting into the clothes that make people hate you.

Don’t eat in front of the TV, the glowing box will distract you from the quantity or quality of calories being shoveled into one of your less discriminating orifices. A self-satisfying and somewhat innocent snack is toasted whole grain pita or cucumbers with hummus. You can stock up and blow some cash on some of the gourmet hummus options, or make your own. All you really need are some chick peas, a food processor, and the will to blend something other than margaritas.

The rationalization behind cutting all of my hair off.

I've always aspired to look like Natalie Portman in Hotel Chevalier. There is a certain elegance in the way she bitchily commands the room in a trench coat and androgynous haircut. The same goes for Edie Sedgwick, and those random anorexic fashion majors running around campus.

I have always admired their confidence in the ability to pull off a masculine hair cut. It's easy enough to hide behind long pretty locks if you have a pimple or serious bags under your eyes. People will be distracted and not as focused on your face. There is also unfortunately the issue of what guys will think. We're brought up in a society where long hair for girls is considered the status quo, and straying from it makes you highly resemble Hilary Swank from Boys Don't Cry.

However, last night when I was pounding peppermint patty shots with Natalie (Whipped cream, peppermint schnapps, and chocolate sauce all in your mouth. Follow with serious gym time) I had an epiphany. I needed to make a serious lifestyle change. The apathy towards my major had reached epic heights, and my decision making skills have been poor of late. I needed a fresh start, preferably one that didn't include retail therapy.

After several more drinks, an ill-conceived frat party, an allergic reaction to said drinks (damn you red dye B5) and one of the worst texts I have ever received, my gut reaction was to call the salon as soon as I woke up this morning. Farewell curly Jew fro, hello pixie cut.

I don't know if it's because I've grown more confident over the years, or if I just stopped caring what other people think of me. Probably the latter, but nevertheless I'm damn proud of myself for not audibly crying when I saw all of my hair falling to the ground. I was initially scared that I would look too much like a little school boy, but then I realized I had two rather large reasons how they couldn't.

I may wake up tomorrow with the horrible realization that it will take at least two years for my hair to fully grow back, but for right now I'm not in panic mode. I'm too busy modeling headbands.

I'll starve before working retail.

I can't do this, Sam.

I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.

What are we holding onto, Sam?

That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for.

-Frodo and Sam, The Two Towers

In so many words or less, Frodo and Sam's dialogue sums up how it feels being broke. When all desperate hope is lost, and Drexel still won't file my fucking work-study paperwork, then perhaps a new day will shine out the clearer and I can still go to dollar drink night. There are no other alternatives because I will cut off my trigger fingers before I even think about working retail. I know there are no drafts pulling people to work at the GAP, but it's still the principle of the thing. Almost like the time I decided I didn't want to pay for a nose job and decided an "accident" and "the insurance company" should take the financial blow. I mentioned it to my ex's younger brother, and he said he would gladly hit me in the face with a blunt object when I least expected it. I quickly lost my nerve when I realized:

a) He wasn't kidding.

b) He was fucking insane.

On the other hand, my financial woes are all of my own doing. I didn't have a job in NYC for six months because I figured I could use the economical powers that are Judaism. Even if it meant getting lunch at the $.50 hot dog place when I was "taking a walk" at work. The frequency in which I shop isn't helping as well, no matter how much of a deal I get. For example, the pro's and cons of my new Armani messenger bag I snatched up at a thrift store. Pro: I no longer have to use my bedazzled backpack. Con: That was 3 and 3/4 handles of Bankers club that could have been in my freezer. And I no longer have to use my bedazzled backpack.

At least I know the last of my wages went towards a weekend in Vermont. It wasn't that expensive because Danielle owns a room at the Killington Grand and we only had to split the cleaning fees between an engineer, math major, designer, and two copywriters. I mention our chosen professions because it speaks to the amount of alcohol that was consumed over the weekend. We basically drank beer, hiked, drank more beer, went in the pool, then brought gin to the pool. Between the ridiculous amount of carbs consumed and drank, I don't want to know how much weight I gained. Around this time of year when one needs to look good for slutty costumes, I usually keep a food diary in order to maintain some form of misguided diet. The following is my entry from yesterday.

Two Weeks Before Halloween:

Around 11:

Breakfast: 1 dill pickle spear, and an eggy in a basket (egg fried on a slice of wheat bread)

Going to try to forget the gnawing pain of hunger in preference of hand-washing a pile of clothes. They’re covered in (a tasteful amount of) sequins so the wash would not take kindly to them. My life is so difficult.

Wal-Mart won’t pick up the phone concerning my Optimus Prime costume. The nice old woman said they’re probably setting up the Christmas displays and can’t come to the phone. The cyclical pattern of consumerism amuses me.

Lunch around 3:

Trader Joe’s veggie burger with a splash of vinaigrette.

Snack around 4:

Three Brussels sprouts.

Gave up on talking to the incompetent and elderly who run the Wal-Mart phones and ordered my Revenge of the Fallen child's costume offline. Size: 8-10 years, husky.

I felt rather chilly while I was doing homework so I put on my taupe poncho I had gotten that morning. Brussels sprouts + online shopping + taupe fetish + poncho = beyond midlife crisis. Time to funnel a bottle of vodka and use my gym shoes solely to throw at squirrels on the bird feeder. All is bleak.

Around 5: hopefully dinner.

Two pieces of toasted wheat bread with a glass of orange juice.

I was feeling down about the whole poncho thing and craved carbs.

......Then I stopped writing because I binge ate everything after class. So much fail.

Charitable Prep

A pretentious attitude, sense of style, and vocabulary are the well known ways to my blackened and decrepit heart. In my estranged youth and shallow optimism, I used to tell myself that no one is "better or worse than anyone else." That phase came and went with my Star Wars themed birthday parties and athletic prowess.

While I bemoan the fact that I cannot swim as far and hard as I used to (aka realize I'm too tired to even lift myself out of the pool) I'm quite comfortable with knowing there are a lot of inferior people out there. I'm not just speaking of Palin supporters, PC users, and those that give the double thumbs-up sign in socially awkward situations.

I'm speaking of anyone who has slighted you, or whose opinion sways from yours. Burn those bridges, stamp on the ashes, and never look back. Even if it means you end up elderly, bitter, and alone. Not to mention so delusional you're convinced that IKEA mirror you spray painted is actually a fine example of late 17th century baroque art.

In order to deviate from the so-called flock and distinguish yourself as an alpha among beta's, I highly suggest a monocle. I thought they had died out with the waist cot and the diaphragm, but apparently they're still alive and well. Check out "the colonel" from Warby Parker. For a mere $50 you can achieve the distinguishment and feeling of authority you so desperately seek without reeking of gin.

In all honesty the site is truly remarkable. Stylish frames with an RX prescription for a mere $95? Shipping included? My Jewdar went off the charts, and I'm already planning on the dark tortoiseshell or the obnoxious green ones. They also donate one pair of glasses for every pair they sell, so you can sleep soundly at night knowing little Samantha in the projects is wearing the "Huxby" style in crystal tortoise.

Now all I need is for Drexel to file my damn paperwork so I can once again grace my work study position and harass freshman. Oh to be eighteen again and desperately cling to the hope that you'll grow out of the Natty Light phase. But why quit when it tastes of what dreams are made of?

May I suggest the mussels?

With the cold weather comes nostalgia for all things New England. The glory of pretentious apple picking, designer flannel, and yelling at cows is sorely missed. Granted I do live near Amish country, but they would judge the stale scent of natural light and failure I radiate on weekends.

This morning I got ready for the beach with Danielle so she could art direct a sand castle for her book design project. G-d I love not having a real major.
After I got dressed and took a look at myself in my fabulous IKEA mirror, I realized three things:

a) all of my fall clothes are currently stashed in garbage bags four hours away
b) my mother could possibly donate or throw out said clothes again and I would be doubly fucked
c) I had put on a Michael Stars tee and Juicy hoodie without prior thought, which screams "jewish suburbanite" louder than any cheerleader without a gag reflex.

After some black coffee and Trader Joe's blueberry oatmeal (they were out of apple oatmeal yesterday, for shame) we headed off to the delightful land they call South Jersey.

I had never been to Cape May before, and it looked like a far less affluent version of a Rhode Island beach town. I could also be prejudiced against anything Jersey, but that goes without saying. On the car ride down we realized that any senior trip we could possibly afford would involve sitting in a beach house with copious amounts of liquor and mollusks. Seafood goes down best with friendship and a high alcohol content. Out of our circle of friends only the designers and med students are graduating this year, with the latter going off to more schooling, and the rest of us poor schmucks are thrown kicking and screaming into the real world.

However, such an event is unavoidable and I am getting sick of going to generically procured theme parties. When I was asked why I didn't dress up for the jungle themed party last night, my immediate response was, "I'm too old for this bullshit" and then, "you know I look like a cougar anyway."

Domesticism.

"If a tree falls on a woman...what the fuck was a tree doing in the kitchen?" -mylifeisbro.com (sorry Harris)

Because I am arguably female, I thought it would be fitting to share some of my favorite household appliances.

Vitamixer

The motherfucking champion of blenders. While I was studying abroad, they had a Vitamixer demonstration every day at the Kensington Whole Foods. It could chop anything, and had some sort of unnatural and destructive horse power. I usually stayed for the demonstrations because the free samples supplemented my steady diet of bread, cider, yogurt, and disillusionment. G-d I looked good that summer.

They’re incredibly expensive, but can you put a price on a blender that makes steaming hot soup or freezing ice cream depending on the speed? That’s like trying to justify not buying a miniature pony for your only daughter. She was only young and optimistic once.

My dream was to own one of these puppies after graduation, but things are looking pretty bleak. I was hoping it could be the catalyst to my raw foods diet, however after some much needed soul-searching I realized the danger that comes with eating raw bacon.


Tonic Water Dispenser

Two of my favorite things in this cruel and fattening world contain 0 calories: tonic water and mustard. Since you can’t really combine alcohol with mustard, tonic water wins out in the end.
Not only does it save you a few hundred calories in a mixed drink, but can stretch out any of your favorite juices. It gives that little carbonated kick you so desperately need after a long day of pretending to care about school and avoiding eye contact with homeless people.

To put it simply, I have little to no upper arm strength, and constantly carrying liters of these bastards back from the store is tiresome. It would be so much easier to carbonate your own damn water, or at least until you purchase the much sought after shake-weight.


Bread Maker

Carbs are the bane of my existence. I love bread, potatoes, and anything that destroys any form of misguided diet I have attempted. I grew up on sourdough and portugese sweetbread so I can once again blame this misfortunate addiction on my parents.

Usually I would say that Iggy’s bread is the best out there, but it all pales in comparison to whatever Chris makes in his breadmaker.

His entire apartment smells amazing during the process, and watching the entire thing is like witnessing a beautiful idea or bastard child be born. Iggy’s pales in comparison to his home made bread, and I hope to one day possess his culinary skills. Since I will probably start a kitchen fire before such a miracle occurs, I will have to satisfy my bread fetish at farmers markets.

Illegal Immigrants

By far the best kitchen appliance, they make whatever you say without even the touch of a button or demand of a recipe. Since they have no paperwork to speak of and technically don’t “exist”, they have amazing endurance and are willing to perform even the most arduous tasks.

After all, a lasagna and pie are nothing compared to jumping an electrical fence and swimming against the river. G-d bless America and all of her amenities.

They're not zombies...or strippers...they're zombie strippers.

I had forgotten how much I loved campus. Walking the hallowed streets of West Philadelphia is a privilege not to be taken lightly, and only the strongest Drexel degenerates and preppiest of Penn survive. I enjoy knowing that at any moment I could run into a friend, as opposed to NYC where I practically knew no one and it was a miracle if I got to work on time, let alone had a clue where the hell I was.

However, I had also forgotten the awkward run-ins that frequent the college campus. With over 14,000 undergrads alone you think you would have a hard time seeing the same people multiple times in one day. You are oh so terribly and horribly wrong.

It's an art to avoid acquaintances you don't really feel like catching up with. You both make eye contact with one another, silently acknowledge each others presence, and move on. It's generally accepted, and tedious at most. It only becomes awkward if one person tries to verbally or physically acknowledge the other, only to be shunned.

Since it's my fourth year here, I am forced into this social survival skill at least 10 or more times a day. Or I actually talk to them because we're "friends," I "live" with them, "drink" with them, or have "passed out on their floor." When it comes down to it, everyone just wants to go about their own business and move on without waving to everyone they know like a retard on speed.

On a happier note, last night I was lucky enough to view "Zombie Strippers" featuring the talented and beautiful Jenna Jameson. It was one of the most politically stirring films I had seen in a long time, as they remarked on the ineffectiveness of the Bush administration. The movie projected that America would declare war on most of the world, and in an effort to create super soldiers that couldn't die and could feel no fear, they made a zombie virus. Unfortunately this virus made its way out of the lab and into a nearby strip club, where Jenna and a bunch of her friends became infected. Thus giving them totally awesome super stripping powers. The entire movie was pretty much stripping and the slow decay of models and the plot. It was amusing though, and well written for its intended purpose. It made us all laugh multiple times, and we even weren't that drunk.

I highly recommend it, especially for those who are keen on seeing Jenna shoot billiard balls out of her vagina at such a speed it blows a man's head off. It's located on-demand in the "free movies" section.

Philthadelphia Zoo

West Philadelphia is like a rare gem in a sea of tarnished and tawdry baubles. An oasis in a desert of filth and grime. A 250 calorie buffalo chicken taquito lasciviously and majestically turning in its glass case at 7-11.

There is no better example of its majesty than the two hour free open bars at Bamboo bar. Sure the average person in attendance is more heavyset than fit, wearing red plastic payless heels, and has a fro that can only compete with mine. But to complain is throwing this generous gift back into the face of the bouncer who just wrestled the dreadlocked man to the ground for taking pictures of him.

On summer nights one can find a good portion of Drexel there, given the odds of knowing someone who has won an open bar. We combat the rest of the crowd, and bring up the literacy rate with every embittered engineer. It's not someplace one wants to go every weekend, but it's nice to get off campus for the alcoholic Disneyworld of ghetto's.

Saturday was no exception for Natty's bday, and it had been a while since I had ventured to the clusterfuck that is the spring garden subway stop. Per usual I stuck my heels in my purse because giving up is not only convenient but less physically painful. Brandon and I had been separated by the boys and girls lines, but he was still close enough to hear me yell "it's all yours" while rubbing my stomach in a circular motion. Either I've gained weight in the week since I've been back, the people in line had no sense of humor, or the extent of their public high school education had not prepared them for that moment. (I'm going to go with all three) He had to assure the people around us I was not actually pregnant and going to an open bar, and I took this free moment to change from flip flops to heels.

It was my first time having actually been legal in this glorious venue, and I was disappointed that we could no longer double fist our plastic cups but finish them one at a time. My drink of choice had also changed as well. No longer was I downing vodka cranberries or "cape coder's" as my mother likes to affectionately call them. However, I doubt the pretentious name applies to a couple shots of rubbing alcohol and generic cranberry juice picked up at Costco. I only touch vodka tonics now, because Manhattan hasn't broken my spirit but made me realize that life is too short for love handles. Or taste buds.

Per usual the crowd was less than stellar, but one particularly affectionate man had taken a liking to Natalie and spoke to Brandon about how to properly woo her. The man explained that he was a performing artist "going to make it big" and he even had the tattoo of a microphone with a dragon wrapped around the cord to prove it. Then he broke into song. Brandon told him that in order to have a real shot with Natalie, he had to discuss poignant topics with her, such as Pokemon. The gentleman was confused as to why Natalie avoided his approach and person at all costs.

We lost Brandon several minutes later, although it was only around 10:30. He woke up in his apartment the next morning with $50 more dollars than he went out with, an unaltered bank account, and a new baseball cap.

He was well and chipper enough the next morning to leave several voice messages on my phone screaming to get the fuck up because we had to go to the zoo. He and Alex then came over with a good supply of beer to drag myself and Danielle out of bed, who had still not fully recovered from the night before. We finished 3/4 of the beer, and then drank the rest of them on the walk to the Philadelphia zoo or in the zoo itself. Senior year didn't start for another couple of hours, and the weather was just too good to enjoy it sober.

The Philadelphia zoo was somewhat ghetto compared to the RI Roger Williams zoo, and the lack of elephants or rhino's was more than depressing. If I had known I was paying $18 to see a couple of fresh water penguins and overrated monkeys, I could have just stayed on campus. We were watching a bunch of tiny free range orange monkeys, when we inquired about the apparent loss of lemurs. The zookeeper replied that they had their own island because they were special. I argued that lemurs were in no way special. I knew their kind, they just demanded an island because they were high maintenance. Fucking lemurs.

The highlight was definitely the small mammal house, but then again I do get overexcited about small creatures that resemble the late Mr. Mittens. After a good four hours of trekking around in the heat and forever scarring small children, we decided the best way to end the last day before senior year was with a barbecue on our ghetto ass porch. Surprisingly nothing caught on fire and noone burned themselves too badly. It was purely a nice reminder that some things still haven't changed since freshman year. Especially when we took a stroll by the rape garden and saw a group of students playing guitars, fiddles, mandolin's, and a banjo to some 1970's pop song. Good to know Drexel accepts only the true winners.

OPTIMUS PRIME, GO!

I was coming back from Natalie's apartment after a rousing marathon of Bridal Bootcamp on demand, when I nearly got attacked by a west Philadelphia squirrel. My instinctual reaction was to scream "Jesus," but considering I was in the AEPi backyard I shouldn't have been surprised that no one rushed out of the house to help me.

So far living on the corner of frat row hasn't been bad. Sure all of my important windows are facing Sig Ep (read: bedroom and bathroom) but I haven't heard too much late night obscenity yelling. However, campus is dead and school doesn't officially start until the 20th. All I have left to do until then is bitch about my cramped living conditions, spend time with the people I haven't seen in 6 months, and continue my wild and fervent quest to find the lost cardigan. It was my favorite one, and held a lot of sentimental value. It's survived way too many nights out to get lost in the move, and if there is a higher being then it will return to me unscathed or there is no justice in this damned cruel world.

The move in itself was interesting. When my father told me I was going to be riding my mattress, I instantaneously agreed without thinking. After the habitual two day incubation period when "thoughts" or "feelings" finally register, I had a vision of riding in a completely dark and airless U-haul van. My lifelong struggle with motion sickness and the back of dark vans without the previously promised candy weighed heavily on my mind. However when we taking all of my precious belongings out of Manhattan I realized it was all open space and it wasn't going to be that bad. Except when my drawers fell on me. And I had to duck every time there was a cop.

My last week of "relaxation" in NYC went well. I got to drink at the Rose Bar in the Gramercy Park Hotel for Lacoste L!ve, saw the Colbert Report with Harris, and spent my last night wandering around fifth avenue for Fashion Night Out. I was really enjoying the free champagne and swiping all of the fall catalogues from stores, until I got caught in the flash mob at the Juicy Couture flagship store. All of these punked out girls around me started to break out into synchronized dance moves, and I couldn't get out of their way fast enough. Before I knew it I was trapped in the middle of their mob that was being filmed and viewed by everyone in the store. It took me a good minute to find my way out of their dancing circle of death, and I'm afraid to look at any video footage posted online.

Before I left I was also fortunate enough to interview famed Parisian fashion photographer Justin Wu, which is available at the RJW blog here.

The transition from work to college has been more than enjoyable, and I had forgotten how amazing campus is. I really did miss my friends, and I'm glad to know I won't take them or any of the stupid shit they do for granted anymore. The upcoming nine months are too precious to waste, and I'm already planning an epic halloween costume. The only question is how to make an Optimus Prime costume look slutty. However, like the old proverb goes "where there's a will there's a way," and I certainly do have the necessary drive. And scissors.

HBO doldrums

Because there are only so many Ke$ha (the patron saint of underage drinking) music videos to distract me from how truly terrible the True Blood season finale was, I thought I'd post instead. First of all, I have never liked Bill and Sookie as characters. Bill has little to no personality, and tends to cry blood at inopportune times. The whole "southern gentleman" thing is throwing me off as well. You can't wear a denim shirt and leather jacket, speak like an undead colonel sanders, and then expect to be taken seriously. I also think he's using Sookie as a beard to get to Eric. He obviously has a thing for blondes, and if anyone had to choose between the Norse G-d Alexander Skarsgard and friggin' Rogue from X-Men, he's going to hands down go for the viking. Anna Paquin's (Sookie's) best role was in Fly Away Home, when she flies cross country with her dad to lead a bunch of geese across the border or something. It was one of my favorite movies as a small child, given my awkward relationship with random animals that tended to turn up in our yard.

The Entourage season finale was much better, even though I stopped caring about the show after season 4. What that show is for males is what Sex and The City is for women. Sure both shows have their witty moments, but all of the characters own self-importance is tiring. I wonder what would happen if they all met each other. None of the Entourage guys would touch Carrie with a 10 foot pole. Drama would probably fuck Samantha and get a rare and incurable social disease. Vince would probably be really high and tweaking out in the bathroom, previously unaware that women over the age of 25 exist, and haven't been taken out behind some barn Lassie execution-style. However, I could never speak ill of Ari Bloom. That man is a saint.

Sweatpants Etiquette

Hell has officially frozen over- Natalie graced the fair isle of Manhattan with her presence this past weekend. Granted it was mostly because of some delusional fantasy involving Patrick Dempsey (staring at him is like staring into the sun) but sanity and clarity have never been her strong points. At least funneling isn't an issue.

We were lucky enough to attend the US Open while she was here, purely because I had randomly won a pair of tickets. We don't spend money on frivolities not involving alcohol and/or tiny animals.

After getting off the subway to the stadium, we quickly realized that it was much windier than we had anticipated. And that we could easily make $50 a pop scalping our tickets and getting the hell out of there. After ten minutes of deliberating whether or not this was the best or worst idea ever considering our mutual love for competitive sports, we ended up going in.

Our seats were horrible compared to the Lacoste box a few days ago, and I was suffering from a bad case of vertigo. Natalie was also quite cold and concerned about getting ill before her impending birthday. I wished we had brought our cardigans, but I don't get chilly that easily due to my less than stellar circulation. I can't really feel anything, including emotions.

There were bags and wrappers and hair pieces flying everywhere from the extreme wind, and we were far more amused from people watching than what was actually going on in the game. We left pretty early, with the intention of living the dream that night. (Drinking heavily in sweats on my roof)

One of the things I miss most about school is going over to my dear friends places in sweatpants and a hoodie. We've all known each other since the first week of freshman year, and they're the only people I will hang out with in sweatpants. If that isn't love I don't know what is.

On the nights we feel like being anti-social and avoiding the bar and frat scenes, a couple of rounds of pong and a movie or food network will suffice. This has only come to bite me in the ass once, and will forever haunt me.

To sum it up, I didn't realize that my friends entire frat and my least favorite sorority would be at his house as well. Long story short I attempted to hide my face but was recognized anyway, and tried to leave the scarring humiliation behind. Then I changed into something more slut-tastic and sharpied on a hitler-stache for my roommates mustache party, accidentally offending a German exchange student and random Drexel trash.

However, back in Manhattan, Natalie and I were trying to enjoy my view and some whiskey. To our left there were two men singing Rihanna to one another while drinking wine and eating a very late dinner off of fine porcelain. They were too awkward to be dating one another, so we just assumed they were bro's. Within minutes they approached us, giving some sob story about how their dates had stood them up, and how all women were whores. We wholeheartedly agreed, and I was amazed that they had the audacity to completely button their cardigans to the very last button.

May Kinko's burns in hell.

When my errands consist of not having to plead with, scream at, and consequently sexually proposition the incompetent assholes at Kinko’s in order for them to print something, I get to go do fun things like hang out at the kibbutz they call B&H electronics.

It’s this huge electronic store akin to Disneyland for the huge nerd or Drexel engineer. Floor upon floor of anything you could ever desire short of an animatronic pony or social graces. It’s also almost completely run by Hasidic Jews, which is thoroughly amusing because it reminds me of my hometown on Shabbat. It's almost impossible to drive through the streets when they have taken over like an overdressed gang. Granted they’re very nice people, and judging by my nose and hair immediately recognize me as one of their own and try to help me. Regardless of how sullen I seem to be looking that day.

On Monday everything was well and good in there, and I gratefully accepted a handful of Israeli candies to supplement my steady diet of bagels and disillusionment while waiting in line for customer service.

It was at this point the cashier, dressed in full Orthodox garb from his yarmulka to heavy beard, magically pulled a customers credit card and wad of cash from under the box he was disposing of. The customer was overjoyed with the cashier and thanked him profusely. The cashier assured him it was nothing, and that “he was good at finding money.” It took everything within me not to double over laughing, but then again I am already going to hell.

The only thing more amusing than stereotypes are how people try and pretend they aren’t true. Like when they glued quarters to the floor of my high school cafeteria. I’m pretty sure the Mexican principal was the only person to not try and pry it off the floor in hopes of purchasing 1/3 of a cookie they forced the retarded children to bake. But in retrospect he was probably wasted.

Monday I was also fortunate enough to attend the opening night of the US Open because my boss is awesome. Emilie and I got there a tad late because of the bastard they call public transportation, but we were able to see the game from about 8:15 onward. Watching it from the Lacoste luxury box that contained the magic they call air conditioning didn’t hurt either. However, as much as I dislike competitive sports (except when I was flipping off other swimmers underwater during races) this was actually an amazing game and I got to see Venus and Federer win. There were also an astonishing amount of attractive men there as well, so the people watching was just as entertaining as the game itself.

It had been awhile since I had forced myself to remember the rules of the game. More or less since that summer I went to tennis camp and got attacked by a garden snake. There isn't much I remember from camp, besides trying to pull the huge reptile off of my arm and hitting on my instructor. I'm sure he enjoyed being harassed by a ten year old.

Social Media At Its Finest

I often speak of my undying love for J Crew, because lets face it I don’t have a life. Its become an almost unhealthy obsession, to the point I will walk around its hallowed corridors and showcases at Columbus Circle to blow off steam after carbo-loading at Whole Foods. Oh to revel in the clothes for the dapper lifestyle I yearn to afford, but can probably only attain through hooking and/or gold digging (since they are synonymous with one another.)

However, I have to give Anthropologie props. The store interiors are glorious to say the least, and are reminiscent of the fairy tale settings we became so used to as children. Except now we’re older and these fairy tales are trying to sell us cutlery and aprons. Nothing like turning the tedium of homemaking into a magical experience, all you need are some clip on fairy wings and a fifth of vodka to bring it to life.

“Mommy, why does dinner taste like cigarette ash and despair?”

“Shut up, you didn’t tell me how much you liked the new lobster motif in the kitchen. We’re turning your room into the British countryside next, don’t even try and fucking stop me.”

But honestly, I do tend to blow too much money on their clothes. It’s a wild stab at pretentious bohemian with a belligerent attitude geared towards superfluous ruffles and layering. If you don’t know what the hell I just said, neither do I. But that’s irrelevant to how pretty their riding jackets and dresses are.

On another note, the store does make good use of their Facebook as well. I like getting the new collections on their news feed, or the ability to “like” an outfit or article of clothing on the website. Sperry Top-Sider has been doing a good job with their Facebook as well, generating content that appeals to their audience and making them feel more at home with the brand. Example A:

8 “likes” in under a half and hour and growing. G-d bless America and boat shoes.

More Adventures In Public Transportation

I just got really nervous because Marty was on Grinder, and the doorbell mysteriously rang while I was blasting Cyndi Lauper. I half expected a man with whole grain tortilla chips and homemade salsa to burst through the door, but it was just my roommate. However, it would be my fault for consecutively playing “Into the Nightlife” and “Jai Ho,” thus giving away our exact location.

Its been one of those weeks where you feel like it should be Thursday night already…but it’s Tuesday. A day when you’ve eaten nothing but carbs and sugar, making you question your humanity, or what you have added to the world other than a carbon footprint and inappropriate tweets.

While I ponder my existence and everything I shouldn’t have contributed to the vast and terrible world of social media, I have to admit it’ll be nice to head back to campus...if only for the social atmosphere. The school work not so much, but at this point I feel like I can get away with being a pretentious bitch in class. Or simply drink the pain away when my Freudian branded vegan restaurant doesn’t go over well in critique. (True story)

I can always preemptively drop out and produce some sort of bastardized sleep aid in lieu of a diploma. How amazing would a melatonin candy necklace be? It would be fabulous to give to children, turning nap time into an obligation rather than some sort of petty fight. In an oversaturated market, this qualifies as a necessary item.

We waste so much of our lives sleeping. Our lives are too short as it is, and it’s hard enough to accomplish everything we need to do in the few years we’re given, let alone during the light of day.

Monday night a friend from school called me at midnight to tell me he wanted to go to late night bars in NYC. He and a friend then proceeded to drive from Philadelphia in an hour and 45 minutes, and we hit up a bar in Times Square until it closed. It was one of those bars where men go to cheat on their wives in the middle of the night, trying to literally recapture a youth. I saw a few cougars as well, but they were far too wasted to hit on any of the guys I came with. I despise Times Square in its entirety, but I haven’t spent a lot of time drinking there and I wanted to check out everything available to me within the short amount of time I have left in NYC.

On that note, with the summer winding down and the depressing inevitability of labor day fashion laws destroying an eighth of my wardrobe, Brittany and I decided we needed one last hurrah at the beach this past weekend.

Jones beach was the closest and far cheaper than the Hamptons, so after a brief encounter with our personal shopper at Anne’s Boutique (located within the Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market) we ran to Penn Station with Steph to catch a train to Long Island. I say run but really I was quickly walking while Brittany sprinted on her tiny midget legs. We barely made the train, but the stress was well worth our delightful ride. We got to pass by exotic locations such as “Jamaica,” and “Queens” and watch a gaggle of Swedes devour an entire buffet in the seats in front of us. It was the International experience IHOP strives to provide but falls short upon.

We caught the bus from the station to the beach, and once again were subjected to the beauty and elegance that is public transportation. There were small children climbing everywhere and the bus engine died, stranding us on some g-dforsaken road until another one picked us up. Then one of the aforementioned small children was left on the other bus, but I’m assuming it got out alive because we saw it a few hours later.

The beach was somewhat cloudy and like every other outing I experience with Brittany, we were verbally sexually harassed by every ethnicity under the sun.

We have had little to no luck with dealing with people on a whole this entire summer. The night before we were accosted by drunken random’s at the Bowery Hotel, who in the midst of casual conversation made it a point to mention that they were multi-millionaires and then scream at the wait staff across the room.

After quickly exiting that scene, we stood on a street corner contemplating our next move. Within moments another group of randoms were asking us to come smoke with them, and then one of them asked out Brittany. While I often speak of slut magic (which I plan to conduct my senior thesis upon, Drexel don't you dare try and stop me) I think there is something to be said of midget magic. I haven't encountered it before, but so far it has proven to be a fascinating case. Whatever it is, it hasn't enabled Brittany to walk faster.

Can't Spell Funeral Without "Fun"

Nothing speaks to your own mortality more than a funeral or a KFC doubledown. Both make you face the inevitable end with grim acceptance, and the injustice of not knowing what it’s truly made of. Given my distrust of spirituality and processed meats, I honestly don’t want to know because I’m afraid of the answer.

Whenever I do something socially irresponsible and bitch about the repercussions to my “friends,” I usually get the “yes you will die cold and alone and left be to eaten by a horde of cats” response which usually doesn’t help. But isn’t that everyone’s greatest fear? Personally the cats add insult to injury because I’m allergic to them, but the poetic description does momentarily strike a chord before Coors light is thrown in the direction of the offender.

I’ve spoken of my general fear of complacency before, but it’s the idea of not accomplishing what you want to do in the time that’s given that is the truly terrifying part. Watching the mind fuck that is Unfaithful before going to the chapel probably didn’t help either. Who metaphorically knows when they are going to be murdered because they screwed Diane Lane? Nothing is certain, except how damn good she looked for her age.

On another note, it was nice to see how everything and nothing changes at home. Most of the former lake staff had come and gone, but my obnoxious signature remains the only unpainted place in the shack. My yard is slowing being turned into some sort of distorted wildlife sanctuary where JAP rabbits and turkeys roam free. My mother held up a check out line to count pennies in Saks. My room is still a humiliating ode to 2006 (I thought NIN lyrics “spoke to me” and Diesel ads were the most poignant testament to American culture.) And my brother has once again grown in the past two months since I’ve seen him. Shit happens, life goes on, and we can always look back and cringe at our horrible horrible decisions and decorating choices.