“So I am here is this room and I keep having thoughts about how I shouldn’t be so cavalier about the world and things and maybe New Yorkers are just jaded but I also think there’s something to it. Do you think you are having fun? Do you know when you’re having fun? Or is it just a label you put on things later. Maybe what’s fun now was really dangerous when it happened. Or worse— polite.”—
I really like your blog, but I cannot comment without reblogging. Do you ever plan on changing that? (Also, I cry at work ALL THE FREAKING TIME NOW, so the fact that you made it outside if quite an accomplishment.)
I used to have comments, but they were rarely used, and I disabled them when I changed my theme. I do have the “reply” feature, however, which seems to be working. I also respond to messages, emails, and very loud shouting.
You know on What Not To Wear when Stacy and Clinton show the poorly dressed fool all the secret footage? How there is always a bit where they actually approached this fashion-challenged person and ask her how she would describe her personal style and talk about what she’s wearing that day under the guise of conducting some random survey or whatever? And how that person, whose entire closet they’ll throw out after dissecting every piece and telling her how ugly and awful everything is, that person will stand there and say stuff like: “my style is classic” or “I really like these shoes because they’re comfortable and they go with everything” or “something about how I’m just trying to keep on keeping on why are you even talking me, I have errands to do.” It’s actually all really mean…
So, I’m walking to work this morning and think to myself, what would I say if someone came up to me on the street and asked me about what I was wearing? I’d know it was a Stacy/Clinton attack because this “outfit” has intervention written all over it.
“You’ll look like:
- you’re going to tie someone to train tracks.
- a swashbuckler.
- a circus ringleader.
- you lift giant round barbells in a striped tanktops.
- Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.”—Responses to my argentineproposed facial hair scheme. NONE OF THESE ARE DEAL BREAKERS, LADIES. (via masterblaster)
I waited until I was out of the building, around the corner, a block away. Then I leaned against a heavy brick building and sobbed. This, for me, is something to be proud of.
I did, however, attract the attention of a cab driver, who pulled up nearby and asked me twice if I needed a ride. I shook my head, but he lingered. I imagined then how I must look to him. No longer in my work uniform, I was wearing a short pair of black shorts, a fringe tank top, high buckle wedges, my eyeliner almost certainly streaked around my face. It was a quarter to one in the morning. He mouthed something - “Did someone hurt you?” I think - and I shook my head again, feeling guilty that it was true. I wasn’t hurt. What right did I have to these tears, this street corner?
Is it arrogance or naivety that I find myself failing at something and almost can’t believe it? That I am crying from surprise, almost as much as shame and frustration? There is more disappointment in me than I know what to do with. I remind myself that this is not my dream job. There is more in me than this. I silently repeat my SAT scores, like a mantra. I hold on to that arrogance, the last of my pride.
It is a humbling experience to be young and lonely. I feel discouraged and very small. But tonight I did not cry until I got to that street corner, and that is something. If it is almost enough, then I will take it.
If I were a different girl, there are things I would do in this city - bartenders I would lean toward conspiratorially, strangers I would charm over beers. But I only know how to be myself, even here, where I might have been different.
I come home to a quiet apartment and tell my troubles to the dishes in the sink.
Sometimes I think about how much space would be left in my head if I could just clear out all of my self-conscious thoughts. Imagine how much time I would have for contemplating novels or great works of art if I could simply stop being aware of the shape of my body and the space I take up at all times.
Hot nights on the subway, when my thighs stick to the seat and my bra is damp with sweat and there is no comfortable way to hold my book and not touch the stranger next to me, I feel so profoundly, uncomfortably human that it’s impossible to concentrate on anything more than my forehead or the backs of my knees.
I suppose that’s part of the appeal of drinking - the way we forget our own bodies. More than a few drinks in, and we find ourselves swooping around the room like birds. We drop things or stumble or bump into strangers, because we have no idea of ourselves, no need to contain. No container with which do it. I like to think of my body this way, as something I can trick myself out of. It is the imaginary cage of the Victorian thaumatrope.
But I have not been drinking tonight. I am unbearably warm, and present in myself. Even my hair has a heaviness about it. I collapse into bed, restless and naked, feeling as always, that there is more of me than there ought to be. That I might spin myself out of this, like the illusion bird - free, finally, when he is still.
“I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heartbreak that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling.”—Jack Kerouac (via marywachsmann)
In my head, I think you're exactly like Kate Nash. Especially from her Foundations video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryH5cga0yUI&NR=1) I'm not sure how accurate this is, despite how quiet you were during school. (Feel free to remove the last half of the sentence. I've had a few ceasars).
What a fantastic compliment! I’m publishing this because I like it so much. (Erin is an acquaintance of mine from college.)
I’m not sure if it’s accurate either, but I do love that video/song. I like to hear the impression I make on people (especially if it’s nice, of course) because the way I see myself is so different from the way I try to present myself which is different again from the way I actually appear.
It’s not that I’m pretending, but that I’m still learning how to convey.
“‘You know, you’re a little complicated after all.”
“Oh no,” she assured him hastily. “No, I’m not really - I’m just a - I’m just a whole lot of different simple people.’”—F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night (via andeventhis)
There is only one place in the world that is everything you expect it to be & more.
Edith Piaf feels consistently appropriate on hot summer days in Brooklyn. I know this pairing may seem incongruous, but when my not quite sheer white curtains are drawn and the sun is streaming through the cracks and there’s a breeze blowing through my bedroom, it just sounds right.
The Magic Dress and I are heading over to the Brooklyn Flea this afternoon! I’ve been meaning to go since I moved here, and I will be very disappointed if I get lost and don’t make it there. (This is a thing that happens to me.)
I feel a bit weird about wearing the Dress now, like someone will recognize me and think have a closet full of the same dress or something. I suppose there are worse uniforms. I like to dress up on my days off, and it just seems so perfect for a flea market.
panicking because my message count keeps going up, but tumblr keeps telling me I have no new messages and maybe someone is trying to tell me they’re wildly, madly in love with me or that they’d like to finance the production of my (as yet unwritten) first screenplay or that they’re 96% sure they’re my long lost twin and we have to pull a Parent Trap scenario, via tumblr message and now I’LL NEVER KNOW.
But seriously, feel free to email until this whole thing blows over? (firstname.lastname@example.org)
I really liked this post. Drinkyourjuice (aka Christine Friar) is one of my favorite tumblrs, despite the fact that I think she would find my interests mostly boring, my blog horribly twee, and my taste in everything very behind the times. (She does a lot of textual eye-rolling at anyone who isn’t entirely in the know about the latest in pop culture, music, etc.)
But she’s hilarious. She hates inauthenticity, she’s marvelously practical and doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of her. Obviously, we’re very different people. (I imagine she never gets her feelings hurt, while I’m perpetually sniffling over the latest slight to my ego.) I think she’s fantastic, and a total inspiration to me to toughen up, live in the moment, and be happy.
The link above connects to one of her posts that really resonated with me. She’s so good at putting things in perspective.
All the women here have their nails manicured. To be honest, it’s taken me about three months to realize it, but one day I looked around the subway and noticed that I was the only lady on there with bare, natural nails. I hid them in shame. I was naked!
They weren’t just polished, like the way you do at slumber parties, they were pristine with white tips or decorative details. Not only this, but their toes were all painted as well! Toes with french manicures! What was this, a subway full of bridesmaids? But no. These were just regular ladies. I was the freak here, with my unkempt nails, my ragged cuticles.
Listen. Where I come from, you get your nails done for prom. After that, the only women who get regular manicures are the high-maintenance girls who wear makeup all the time, and are a permanent shade of orangey-brown from the tanning salon, or the rich housewives who have nothing better to do with their time.
I have had literally two manicures in my life. Junior prom. Senior ball. It was a guilty, exciting treat, but not one I could imagine paying for on a weekly basis. But I’m starting to feel like the foreign exchange student who didn’t realize that most girls shave their legs and has been walking around like some sasquatch, oblivious to the horrified stares of her peers. So I guess a trip to the salon is in order, but I’ll have you know that I’m going to the cheapest joint I can find, and I intend to feel very uncomfortable the whole time.
I would feel much better about this whole situation if someone would just ask me to prom already.
After two glasses of wine, I am writing you confessional emails that you won’t mention the next day. If I bring them up, you will only note that I forgot the subject line - one of your pet peeves, and a crime of which I am constantly guilty.
I imagine my email packed in with the others you receive - important work things, with words like expedite and The Budget in them. Pornographic forwards from your father. I picture my little email lost in the sea of your inbox, tossed about, half-drowned when you pull it up for air.
I wonder whether you skim it, though it’s only a few lines long. You read twice as quickly as I do, which is something I never trust in a person. I don’t know what it means that you never write me back, except that I do, and I won’t say it out loud.
I’ve been keeping a mental list of the things you dislike. The parenthetical “no subject” is just one of many. Bad drivers, high waisted skirts, reality TV… I’ve memorized it. You aggravation is so familiar, it’s become endearing. One day I’ll know what it means that I have clung to this, your disapproval, for so long.
I collect your pet peeves like trading cards and spread them out on my kitchen table. Some nights I leave the subject line empty on purpose, just to see what you’ll do.
My pet peeve? Funny you should ask. It’s the way you are capable of so entirely, dreadfully missing the point.
I feel bad complaining about a free service, especially one that I have loved for so long, but Tumblr, honey, get it together.
You have a problem.
You ate three of my posts today. Some just disappeared from my queue. I know I’m not posting anything profound, but I do put some time and thought into the things I share here, and it’s really frustrating for me when you destroy the things I’ve created. I can no longer enable you in good conscience.
If you do not seek help immediately, our relationship will change in the following ways:
I will stop posting entirely.
I will stop providing you with photos of pretty dresses and jewelry from Anthropologie.
I will seek custody of my earlier work and transfer it to blogspot.
Will you accept the help that is being offered to you today?
hey there! im gonna be a sophmore in college and have been following your little new york journey here on tumblr ^-^ I myself have big dreams to move to NYC after college [from the midwest!] I am nervous but I want to make sure I get there. Any advice on making the move or even finding a job/intership from this distance? thanks so much love your blog xo
I’m not sure I’m qualified to give advice, but I can try, and at least tell you what worked for me.
- First, don’t be nervous. You can do this! It just takes some time and money and patience.
- I found my internship through NYU’s summer program, which is open to non-NYU students - I paid for the course and the dorm and worked for credit (which ultimately didn’t even transfer, but was worth the experience).
- I don’t know what you’re majoring in, but if it’s anything that’s not likely to lead to a quick and easy job opportunity (ahem - arts) start honing your skills now in the service industry. Get some experience waitressing, hostessing, bartending, or even retail. For me, hotel experience was my key to finding a job here in NY. If you can do one or two of these things, there will always be jobs open to you.
- After college, spend some time saving money (unless you’re loaded, in which case, buy yourself a penthouse in Manhattan and invite me over, ok?). For me, this meant moving back home, despite my deep inclination to immediately get out on my own.
- Get a job where you can make more than minimum wage and work at least 35 hours a week. Spend at least 6 months saving money. More than a couple grand.
- Research - neighborhoods, rent prices, subway lines, everything. Ask the internet your questions and ye shall receive. You will more than likely need a cosigner for your first NY apartment, so start working on your parents now.
Anyway, I think I’m getting way ahead of myself. You have lots of time. I came to NY without a job, without any friends, without a sense of direction, and so far, I’ve survived. Good luck with your journey!
So my internet connection has gone to shit, despite my best google-searching efforts to repair it myself. I can’t watch youtube clips, my pages load at a snail’s pace, and I have spent more time than I care to admit trying to will it into submission with my puppy dog eyes. I am desperately avoiding calling my provider, as this has never resulted in anything other than frustrating phone conversations with some poor guy in India where I’m loudly but politely trying to follow directions. (“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO CLICK?”)
To make matters worse, my Tumblr queue no longer works. This is problematic as it’s typically my main method of posting due to the fact that I spend my days sleeping, my afternoons and evenings working, and my nights drinking. Ha. I fit blogging in where I can, and let the queue maintain my facade of orderly materialism.
“She was in love with her son’s pediatrician. Alone out in the country—could anyone blame her.
There was an element of grand passion in this love. It was also a safe thing. The man was on the other side of a barrier. Between him and her: the child on the examining table, the office itself, the staff, his wife, her husband, his stethoscope, his beard, her breasts, his glasses, her glasses, etc.”—