“This is my non-thinking face,” “I swear I’m fine, I’m just relaxed,” or “It’s all good,” are my usual go to’s, but explaining that I normally look depressed is not the best ice breaker for casual conversation.
I’ve tried to fix it for years, but it’s one of those things about yourself you can’t change. Like your height or an inexplicable fear of jazzercise.
I know it’s not an attractive quality of mine, and can be quite off-putting. I often come across as a maudlin bitch when I would like to think of myself as a generally content human being. However I can’t exactly disagree with the bitch part.
My freshman year of college people were wary of me at first, because of my negative appearance when I was really just hung over and spacing out. They also assumed I was affiliated with a sorority, when I strictly associated myself with fraternities and the magic of natural light ice. Any other assumptions about me from then on were usually true, and I didn’t partake in many design related shin-digs. The idea of taping 40’s to your hands seems all well and good at first, but eventually the indignity of the situation and what the malt liquor is doing to your thighs will make anyone uneasy.
I know I shouldn’t get angry when people inquire about my well being, as it was meant with good intentions. But the obligatory smile after the explanation is what actually annoys me, that I should have to reassure them that I am actually the most fucking cheerful person around.
However, I’d rather look like I do than like the jolly idiot with an eternal smile plastered on their face. I feel like that’s more unsettling than any sort of vapid look I unintentionally give off.
Sometimes I wonder what makes a person driven. Granted it’s this inexhaustible urge to make yourself better, faster, harder and stronger and hopefully without a Daft Punk ringtone. However, at what point do you become complacent with what your have?
To what ends do you beat yourself to the point of no return? Do you stop when you’re unhappy, or make yourself move forwards with the vain hope for a better tomorrow? At that point I believe it all depends on a persons individual definition of “success” and how they see themselves accomplishing such goals. But what happens when you do accomplish these goals? Retirement? Golf? Ample amounts of good wine and hookers without cheesy names? (Because they’re the more expensive ones.)
I can’t understand the two opposite extremes. Those who throw in the towel as soon as possible to become pregnant with their high school sweethearts half retarded demon seed, and those who work too long and too hard to enjoy the embittered and pesticide ridden fruits of their labor. One will always wonder what could have been had they used proper methods of birth control, or taken their dentists advice and worn their retainer in order to become an acceptable member of society. The workaholic will furiously labor into the night, and not know what to do with themselves when given a few precious moments of free time. It depresses me to see the lights still burning in Manhattan office buildings at 10 or 11 at night, as I stand on my roof with the obligatory mixed drink. The same goes for browsing on Facebook and seeing fallen comrades and dickheads proudly displaying their Wal-Mart engagement rings and children’s onesies with barely witty sayings on them. (“Here Comes Trouble”? No sweetie, that’s next week when your rent check is due and Wendy’s only gave you a raise in Baconater’s. It did seem like such a good idea at the time.)
I don’t know which is the better of the two evils, but at the very least the workaholic can stop when the terrible terrible burden that has been resting on their soul becomes too much to bear. When the gravity of their situation overtakes them, they can take off to Cabo for two weeks without telling anyone. They will return tan, perhaps without a kidney, but have enough souvenir shot glasses to last a lifetime. And isn’t that the most important thing?
In the end, I stand by my motto that complacency is the most dangerous word in the English language. Complacency and slut magic, but since Websters has yet to grace the latter with a proper definition I’ll go with my first choice.
Upon leaving the city of Brotherly Love and cellulite, I feel somewhat accomplished. Not only did I manage to eat a weeks worth of calories at happy hour alone, but successfully raped and pillaged the Gap Outlet. Until I find and maintain that elusive bastard “clarity” or “direction,” such means will have to suffice in making me feel like a contributing member of society. Trying to uphold our failing economy through the purchase of chicken tenders and slutty basic tank tops is a feat in itself, especially how counterintuitive those two purchases are to each other.
The low point of the weekend was nearly passing out in Center City as the Dunkin Donuts was 2 blocks further away than I anticipated, and my body likes to shut down without things like caffeine or water. Luckily DD has a small ice coffee for 99 cents special, and I had a ton of ones in my wallet left over from dollar drink night. Thus allowing Blockley to indirectly save my life, when I thought it was only stealing hours I will never get back from its shame stained walls. Hard to believe only three years ago those cops were gunned down in there.
Other than helping ironically decorate for aepi’s christmakuh party and watching several hours worth of “I didn’t know I was pregnant” or as I like to call it “maybe it’s just all that liquor weight,” I pretty much sat in air conditioning and tried to remind myself that I still had nine months at Drexel.
Leaving for six months was both mentally and emotionally trying, and now I’m having mixed emotions on going back to the beauty that encapsulates the American college campus. I’m too adjusted to NYC, and Philadelphia in comparison now seems quite small and inhibiting. (Though vastly cheaper) There’s also the whole “complacency” issue where I know I’m going to be doing the same exact things I’ve been doing for three years now at school and it’s a bit tedious. Throw in the complete lack of interest I now have for my major, and the fact that I am now a 21 year old frat rat. It’s not cute anymore, I’m not wandering back to my freshman dorm and falling over the turn stile only to have public safety compliment me on my outfit. In college years I’m like a senior citizen yelling at the youngn’s to get off my lawn as I wildly wave a bottle of scotch and a rifle. Instead I’m probably telling the young sluts to stop stepping in the frat flower bed as I’m waving a solo cup and my shoe which I may or may not end up throwing at them.
In the end I know I should stop bitching and just enjoy Senior year for what it is, and relish the fact that I still have those precious few months to enjoy being a complete asshole without legitimate responsibilities. I’ve seen the real world, and there are a lot less jobs in it than I thought there were.
On a much happier note, Mad Men finally comes back tonight and with that life sadly gets a little bit better. I have a huge girl crush on Christina Hendricks, and since January Jones combination DUI/walk of shame I have new found respect for Betty Draper as well.
After seeing J Crew's Fall 2010 preview there are only two words that come to mind: motherfucking crazy. It's nice to look forward to tapered cords instead of those insufferable hipster leggings, oxfords instead of nasty ass summer feet, and once again giving into my weird jacket fetish. (How many taupe jackets can one possibly own? Never enough.)
It looks like a lot of classy neutrals with equestrian overtones...and the return of the quintessential knee sock. I may have not been a Catholic school girl excluding halloween, but I can still aspire to their skirts, headbands, and alcohol tolerance.
As for the guys, I'm loving the dark washes and fitted cardigans with blazers. Granted if I saw any of these dapper outfits in real life I would seriously question the wearers sexuality, and silently bless the other lucky man that got to have him.
Thankfully summer is far from over, but it's never too early to think of the elegance of turning leaves, or drunk apple picking with friends and loved ones.
Sometimes I wonder if I've become too much of a superficial and shallow asshole in the past few years, and then I remember why that will never come to pass. My dear dear friend apathy would never allow it.
Do I need this years "it" bag? Why is my hair up for the second consecutive day in a row? Why have I been existing off of poached eggs and Jack Daniels? I'm not giving up, I just don't fucking care.
I feel like there should be some sort of Greek myth involving the origins of apathy. Perhaps it was a demi-god or some sort of wood nymph that refused to answer the prayers of its followers. Apathy was too busy trying to hit on Aries or tanning in Crete to listen to the pleas and laments of mere mortals. At some point Apathy's followers became fed up and pissed off with their crops failing, their rivers overflowing, and the general lack of a decent moisturizer. Apathy's temple was burned down and her statues beheaded or crudely defaced with unwarranted facial hair. Completely bullshit, Apathy cursed all of mankind with her general lack of concern for just about everything. Since then many have questioned whether she granted us a blessing or a curse.
In actuality apathy is a variance of pathos and came into being around 1600, but then again what does Google know? Absolutely everything.
Back in the olden days of my internship, I was overtaken by a paralyzing fear concerning my money situation. Having my grocery money stolen the first night I arrived in NYC did put a damper on things, and I spent a good amount of my time on Craigslist vainly searching and applying for any sort of cocktail waitress or editing job. Basically anything short of an escort service that would accept my poorly rendered portfolio website or cliched college resume.
I either received emails asking for my picture or none at all, so I decided to try my hand at walking around Midtown and applying for bartending jobs. None of the restaurants or bars were too thrilled with my response regarding my prior bartending experience (handing out cans of Natty Light at house parties and frats) and sent me packing.
I was belligerent, nay enraged. Did I attend one of the nation's finest third tier tech schools for nothing? Was my future not intended for pouring lukewarm beer into the mugs of the near destitute and depraved? Heartbreaking to say the least.
As a last resort I ended up applying to Hooters, who was actually quite pleased with my "credentials." I ended up going back for a second interview, but never picked up my phone when they called me again. In the end I decided no amount of tips were worth the toll those shorts would take on my dignity and sanity. I had so little left to spare as it was.
However, one of the Craigslist ads did respond in a timely fashion, and asked me to write for their website. Unfortunately it was unpaid, and I decided not to write for them again as they wanted me on a weekly basis, and I should be paid for what I usually get for my writing. Absolutely nothing.
However, I had to catch up on a few episodes of Spartacus and an entire season of Mad Men, so my time really was precious. The following is what I wrote for Lists and Grades, and it was obviously around the time of the Tiger Woods scandal. It seems like decades ago now, but I'm sure the poor bastard would disagree with me.
Tiger Woods Mistress List
It is a widely known fact that every little girl aspires of only two things: owning a pony named Sparkles, and being sexually exploited as a married athletes mistress. As one of those girls still trying to live out the dreams of her youth, I would like to thank Tiger Woods for making not one, not five, but an alleged eleven girls wish come true. The following is a list of some of the lucky girls who have come forward to admit their good fortune. This is doubtlessly a tentative list, with others still out there. Probably wandering around farms in pursuit of the damn pony, Tiger’s hush money clutched in hand.
First Mistress: Rachel Uchitel, the personable and attractive NYC party girl. Tiger allegedly had some form of emotional attachment to her, and texted her telling her he loved her. However, that little tid bit is superseded by how great her hair looks. Where does she get it done?
Second Mistress: Jamie Grubbs, cocktail waitress and former girlfriend of Tool Acadamy’s “Loud Mouthed Tool.” The above information ironically comprises all of Ms. Grubb’s resume. She truly encompasses the American dream.
Third Mistress: Kalika Moquin, a Vegas club promoter with a funny name. I wonder what people think when they get her business card, especially when they see it followed by “professional slut.”
Fourth Mistress: Jamie Jungers, the adorable lingerie model and winner of Howard Stern’s mistress contest. I cried along with her when they placed the crown of shame upon on her bleached head. The only difference being hers were tears of joy, and mine were more of the silent and bitter kind.
Fifth Mistress: Mindy Lawton, the trailer park mistress. The least attractive of the bunch, she most likely won over the golf pro with her winning personality. Or her breasts. It’s really a toss up.
Sixth Mistress: Cori Rist, the failed model, but true winner in all of America’s hearts and minds. YOU GO GIRL!
Seventh Mistress: Holly Sampson, the former porn star, who honestly resembles a kindergarten teacher. Except the fun kind, that one that teaches you all about the alphabet and swallowing.
Eighth Mistress: Joslyn James, a current porn star you might have seen from films such as “Big Breasted Nurses” and “My First Sex Teacher #12.” Her next few movies will be done in the name of ecological charity, with titles ranging from “Saving the O-zone” to “My First Molecular Biologist.”
Ninth Mistress: Loredana Jolie, the Playboy model and prostitute. A little known fact is she was also the voice of the original muppet prostitute on a popular children’s television show. However, she was fired after the big yellow bird mysteriously got chlymydia.
Tenth Mistress: Julie Postle, yet another cocktail waitress. That’s like saying “she’s just another Harvard grad.” Sure they exist in multitudes, but think of the time and sacrifices they must have made to boldly own that title.
Eleventh Mistress: Theresa Rogers the “Cougar” mistress, giving hope to older women everywhere. Almost like a slutty version of Oprah or Streisand.
Teen Mom returns next week, let there be rejoicing throughout the land.
Since Jackass and Wildboyz became out of trend, MTV has since lost its magic for me but these video-taped high school drop-outs and degenerates are pretty much the only thing that got me through finals week. I vainly sought out alternatives and opportunities to feel better about myself while knee-deep in codes and pantone colors. Questioning my chosen major and coming to the sobering realization that my advertising final was a series of Vera Bradley advertisements geared towards bitter and alcoholic soccer moms was frightening. At the very least I was in my twenties and couldn't boast a C-section scar. Just that inter-sorority knife fight scar.
Granted these girls and their dead beat boyfriends and "fiancees" are the very epitome of white trash (with the exception of Ryan who is extremely attractive white trash) but you figure they should know better. There is no better way to ruin any potential for a career-driven successful life than going into the work force with a mullet and twins.
At the very least the hot mom whose name I can't recall ended up sleeping with the douschebag from Jersey Shore. I think his name was Mike, but imagining the process of googling this is emotionally draining. However I believe MTV deserves golf claps all around for bringing two such beautiful and thoughtful people together. If we're lucky they might perhaps spawn another joyous offspring, bringing this whole charade full circle. G-d bless America.
I sometimes forget that I have been actively living on my own for three years. By “on my own” I do mean living with three other girls who are quite aware of my incompetence and failings in little matters such as “eating normal meals,” “sleeping the recommended amount,” and pretty much “life in general.” My Philadelphia roommates are nothing but saints to put up with me, especially my actual roommate who not only understands my routines, but accepts them.
For example, if I don’t come home I am either:
a) Passed out on Natalie’s couch, clutching the TV clicker with a death grip. Adult swim can’t watch itself, people.
b) Passed out on the brotherhood room couch. Probably after cursing out the freshman pledges who hadn’t learned my name yet. “Why is she still here, and why is she blacked out and STILL correcting my grammar.”
c) Passed out on the fraternity porch. Because West Philadelphia is just full of people who LOVE to sleep outside.
d) Passed out in our hallway, because I couldn’t make it to the room.
In some sort of bastardized attempt to turn myself into a decent human being, I’ve decided to set myself goals.
Firstly, I will stop eating loaves of bread. This is an awkward and highly caloric habit, and faintly reminiscent of an Oliver Twist situation. However I doubt the little bastard was familiar with Iggy’s sourdough. I feel like he had bigger things to deal with, like dancing for change in order to buy penicillin. “Please sir, it’s not just a flesh wound.”
I will find cool sunglasses, because I have this weird paranoia that Manhattan-ites are secretly judging me because I don’t own Ray Ban’s. My douschebag aviators are missing, and with those go any sort of pretension I can muster.
I will attempt to cook…things. I was browsing in Anthropologie and came across some of the most darling measuring spoons imaginable. Brittany had to forcibly make me put them down, even though I was a mere $7.95 away from domestication.
I will stop downloading awkward apps for my phone. For a month and a half my phone would scream “THIS IS A TEXT MESSAGE” in a King Leonidis voice akin to the famous “THIS IS SPARTA” we heard in 300. I had to keep my phone on vibrate because although I deleted the app, it would still go off because my Droid is an evil and possessed being. I had to go to the Verizon store to make it go away, but they will have to pry my “highway to the danger zone” ringtone out of my cold, dead fingers.
Are you a struggling artist searching for a means to share your voice and tambourine with the world?
Has it been your life’s dream to showcase your traveling family band complete with angst ridden yet amply drugged children?
Well step off that open-night mic stage stained with failed hopes, dreams and opiates. The Alternative Apparel Unsigned Artists Competition is a legitimate chance to share your skills with the world. The talent showed on the website is incredible to say the least, and the winner gets to perform at a fancy venue in New York City in front of powerful representatives in the music and entertainment agency.
The judges are Charlie Walk, the former president of Epic records and the W in RJW Collective, Greg Alterman the creator of Alternative Apparel, and Kelly Cutrone, the founder of People’s Revolution. The winner(s) voted upon by the judges will not only get to perform in front of a VIP crowd, but featured in the Alternative Apparel fall fashion campaign. Winners will also get exclusive interviews with music editors, experts, and industry insiders on top of airplay on music sites and radio stations...plus $1500 in Alternative Apparel products! In order to enter, all you have to do is record yourself (or your band) performing the first verse and chorus to Aqualung’s “Brighter Than Sunshine” and upload the video to http://www.alternativeapparel.com/unsignedartist/.
If you can’t sing, then vote! Check out Rachel Berman’s video!
