watch the blog

Day 9 of Unemployment

I wish there was one of those “What My Friends Think I Do, What I Actually Do” meme for being unemployed - I mean, I am positive there is, but my area of expertise on the world wide webs really only spans the cyber stalking and bullying gamut.

Find out where your boyfriend (yours. not mine. definitely not mine. i always know where he is) was last night by perusing location and hash tags on every social media outlet? I got you. Use google to find a meme on the internet, where memes were created and live? No, not me. Not your girl.

So, let me write in words what I want to express to you.

UNEMPLOYMENT
What My Friends Think I Do: Sit at home, use the internet to look for jobs, attempt to be productive.
What My Boyfriend Thinks I Do: Sit at his home to use his internet to blog; harass him.
What My Parents Think I Do: To be honest, they probably think I still have a job. Regardless, they definitely think I am sitting on stacks of cash. (I mean, they imagine that in my home, I am physically propped up by stacks of cash. They are insane. They have no idea about anything.)
What My Local Bodega Owner Thinks I Do: Attend highschool.
What the People at Starbucks Think I Do: ~~Crowd-sourcing?~~Stare at people, ~~Witness Protection,~~ drink copious amounts of iced green tea.
What I Actually Do: Sit in various people’s homes/stores, cry, sob, cry. Stare at myself in the mirror, find white hairs. Try in vain to rip them out. Discover new reason to be sad. Cry, sob, repeat. Perfect memorization of Ja Rule and Nelly’s entire discography. Gchat.

Explanatory Notes and Visual Illustrations on Chart Above:

No Money:
lunch… and dinner. (Thats a $20 salad from Morandi, that has to last at least two meals.)

Wear Same Outfit Everyday:
If you’ve seen me in anything besides a variation of a sweat/stretch pant and a tee shirt in the past week and a half, you saw me friday night.

Rediscovered PhotoBooth:
lol. i’m just in starbucks on my computer, but i’m also updating my headshots. (no) photobooth!!! *I have been sitting in Starbucks for 35 minutes with headphones plugged into an iPod, taking photobooth pictures with, unbeknownst to me, my sound on full blast. smmfh.

LIGHTS OUT.

(LIGHTS OUT is something I’m trying to make happen. It means like “it’s over” or “i’m dead” or like “it’s so cool/funny/stupid/embarrassing” or literally anything. You can use it if you want*.)

*but you have to pay me $5 per usage. email me for paypal information. ~~AND FOR MY RESUME LOL I AM UNEMPLOYED AND DEPRESSED!!!!!!!!!!~~

# unemployment

# being unemployed

# portrait of an artist as a starving artist

# this is the worst

miss trial

I had been patiently awaiting jury duty the way normal people patiently await things like things that aren’t jury duty for months.

I was supposed to show up at 9am, but I arrived closer to 9:30, because 9am is way too early for me and because I am wild disrespectful of rules and other people’s time. I entered a room full of very sad, mean looking people and had a seat on the floor because there were no more chairs and my natural inclination is to find comfort by any means necessary.

Within minutes, an unusually sprightly (given the time and circumstances) middle aged man introduced himself by shouting his full name two or three times and announcing that if there were any “journalists” present, they should “speak kindly” about him in their “printed publications”. I’m not sure what year he thought it was or if he knew we were at jury selection and not a press conference, but truly not a single person reacted to this and luckily I don’t remember his name, because trust I would be defaming him personally.

He soon procured access to a loudspeaker and addressed those of us who were squatting on the filthy floors, letting us know we would be able to find seats in an adjacent room.

Once we were all seated, he gave excruciatingly detailed instructions on what to do if you were not willing or able to serve jury duty that day, which i found strange because i hadn’t been willing or able to serve jury duty four times prior to this and I simply did not show up.
People left.

Then, he went straight into an explanation of how to fill out a questionnaire that I can only describe as “self explanatory”. Honestly, the only reason you should have had any questions or concerns about anything that was being asked of you on this form was if you did not read English or could not read English (…because you were blind or illiterate.)

Anyway, he insisted on explaining the form via loudspeaker for approximately 35 minutes.
At the end, people had questions.

Then he introduced a film he was about to put on. I’d love to tell you anything about this twenty minute video but I was asleep within seconds. Incidentally, this wasn’t my fault at all, for when the video was announced, I was excited ~~… but then it started to play and whoa! so fucking boring.~~ and went to shut a door that was obstructing my view.

But then, the master of jurors came in and after making us all aware that he believed this inanimate object had somehow gained agency and shut itself, he propped it back open.

The video stopped. There was an hour of inexplicable shuffling, during which no instructions were given. In this hour, I caught a glimpse of a fellow potential juror’s questionnaire. Under the “hobbies” section he had written the following:
“reading history, writing history, swimming.”
SWIMMING. He was 78.

When it was finally time to be divided for jury selection, I was called first and therefore officially (potential) juror #1. I was directed to sit in the first seat in a room occupied by three male attorneys. Upon sitting down, I immediately burst into uncontrollable laughter. By no means am I exaggerating when I say that I can not recount reactions from these three men because I was physically unable to look at them because I was laughing so much.

Amazingly, I was not asked to leave.

I’m going to sum up what happens during the jury selection process:
Basically, the lawyers tell you a little about their stupid boring case and then they question you and try to find out if you have any biases that would deem you an unfair juror and all the people (hoping NOT to be picked as jurors) think quickly about how to sound biased in some way about some part of the case when being interrogated, so they won’t be chosen.

On Voting.

There’s truly no greater evidence of our country’s obsession with mediocrity than the fact that this person has been named the Sexiest Man Alive.

Like, who is voting on this?

We really gotta pull it together, America.

I saw this guy at a party I was at on Halloween (I’m very rich and famous and I was at a Halloween party with a lot of rich and famous people, lest you think I did anything besides be rich and famous, you infernal heinous anonymous commenter~~; come at me~~) and I couldn’t stop staring at him because I was convinced he was a person I knew. I kept staring and staring and finally I was like “Oh, it’s just regular old Channing Tatum; Standard, run of the mill good lookin’ guy Channing Tatum.”

And that’s who this is. That is who America thinks is the Sexiest Man Alive - a person I was at a party with.

That’s all I’m saying…

Also, I’m saying you should vote tomorrow, you two. You two people who read my blog… and you third person who comes here to write nasty mean comments (I SEE YOU) because it’s very trendy. Voting is trendy. It’s on trend this season.

# I'M NOT SAYING HE'S NOT HOT I'M JUST SAYING HE'S NOT THAT HOT

# sexiest man alive or... normal good looking dude

# this guy

# vote

# voting

feeding frenzy

“ooh girl, ya silhouette make me wanna light a cigarette…”

-like, “take up smoking” - in the middle of a SoulCycle class… and then put it out on the body of the instructor of soulcycle, because smoking is awful and what am i even doing starting to smoke when i should be exercising? and because I loathe the instructor of SoulCycle and SoulCycle, the class.

No, but seriously. Real talk: SoulCycle is garbage. It is the most dreadful thing I’ve ever participated in that I didn’t intentionally try to make dreadful for the sake of a story (see: most things that involve me and strangers).

I very rarely exercise and when I do it’s not in groups and it’s certainly not in the bottom of a laundry bag. Being in a SoulCycle class felt like being in the bottom of a laundry bag for a number of reasons:

1. it smells like dirty clothes in the room
2. it’s dark AF.
3. all i wanted to do was get out…which is what i’d want if i were TRAPPED in a laundry bag.

I went to SoulCycle a week and a half ago - on a Saturday at 8:30am - for the first (and last/ only) time in West Hollywood, because I live here now (ish) and I only do very Hollywood type things, like surround myself with ultra hip, skinny people and try to be as skinny as possible and let people know about my struggles to get and stay skinny. These are all very Hollywood things to do. I know that because I live here. ish.

SoulCycle is uniquely terrifying because all anyone knows about it is that it’s like a cult and when you get to SoulCycle, you are brought into a room with a bunch of strangers, speaking in whispers about SoulCycle and they shut the door and you are trapped. And once they shut the door and you are trapped, all of the cult members are strapping and trapping themselves onto/into their cult bikes and it sounds like a hundred industrial machines working overtime… in a factory that manufactures bullshit.

I went into SoulCycle expecting to become obsessed with this cult fucking troupe of stationary bicyclists. What I came out of SoulCycle with was a deep hatred of SoulCycle and our ~~leader~~ instructor Rourke.

Unlike the way I assume most group workouts take place, this one took place in near complete darkness, which was difficult because - not to sound like your mother, but - how are you supposed to know if you’re doing the moves right?? (full disclosure: I was doing none of the moves right.)

I’m a fairly open minded person, but the other glaringly egregious thing I’d like to point out about SoulCycle is that inside this sweatbox, printed on one of the mirrored walls are words - something along the lines of:
ATHLETE
LEGEND
ROCKSTAR
SOULCYCLE

CHILL.

Like, I’ve only been there once, so I don’t know, but my best guess is that these words are not specific to each class’ participants… so, like… YEAH. Most people are none of those (except “SoulCycle.” I guess everyone is “SoulCycle”) so the fact that these delusive words of inspiration were tagged was immediately infuriating and decidedly uninspiring.

(Thinking about the way in which a higher up at SoulCycle would equivocate about the general meaning and application of these trendy words is making me physically ill.)

Here’s a tip, SoulCycle, maybe put up words that are generally applicable to people who are working out on bikes like… “cyclist” or “fitness minded person” or just “person”… or maybe, like, “Hey” or “pedal!” or literally any word in English that isn’t complete nonsense?? I don’t need to be reminded of my shortcomings while being yelled at by someone in tip top shape at the front of a pitch black room who is not even on the bike!!!

And, I certainly do not need my instructor’s incessent yelling to be about the discrepancies between our workout and the rest of our weekend. “JUST THINK…. EVERYBODY… THIS IS THE HARDEST. THING. YOU’LL DO ALL WEEKEND!!!”

Dude, you don’t know my weekend.

And you’re not a LEGEND because you can bang out 45 minutes of high intensity cycling on a stationery bicylce, like your great-grandmother did a hunnit years ago. SORRY! HAVE A SEAT… maybe on the bike… doing the moves you’re supposed to be demonstrating. Just a thought.

(Does anyone know a job where I can do and try things for free and then write about them, but I will only write nasty things becasue that’s more fun and I am a very negative person?

HIT ME!)

# ass ass ass

# soulcycle

# things that are *LA*

# i'm pretty heated about soulcycle

# and not just sweating... cuz it was hot as fuck in there

# exercise

# aggressive

# things i hate

# things i shake my head at

Hi!! Are you still there? Ok.

I spent much of Monday night at a dive bar in SoHo talking to a guy named Steve who repeatedly told me he was from “New York. New York City” until I cajoled him into revealing what I already knew - based on his accent, his dad jeans and his general stupid happiness - which was that he was actually from Long Island.

(Spent the rest of the night trying to get away from him. Just kidding. He was nice - in that way that anyone who was bullied as a child for something they haven’t grown out of (but rather, have learned to live with) is nice. My guess is he was bullied for having terrible hair and a subtly lazy eye.)

The first thing this person said when he sat down was that he had met the girl we were with a half hour earlier, at the bar, seven steps away. This made me angry because I’d thought he was part of the group I’d come to meet and knowing he wasn’t and that I’d have to speak to him out of courtesy because he’d been invited to sit with us (… I see what I’ve done; I know) by some girl I wasn’t even friends with, who was nowhere to be found, was not cool.

Then he told us that something he and the stranger friend girl had spoken about was that going to a bar on a Monday night is awkward because there’s a lot of weight attached to talking to people because they think you’re trying to take them home. I didn’t understand how that was different than any other night but this made me happy. So I ~~CASTRATED him~~ told him “oh thank god. so that’s out of the way… that I’m not going home with you.”

We started doing the routine bar chat: where are you from, what do you do, favorite drink, ~~how’d we get stuck talking~~?

And he told me he did something boring - I mean, he told me what he did and it bored me; he certainly didn’t tell me what he did was boring work. He was actually quite pleased with himself when he explained what he got paid to do on the daily - and I made something up and he was like “wow that’s really cool!!”

And I was like…NOPE! “No not really. Practicing divorce law is not really all it’s cracked up to be.” Smdh.

And then he did that horrendous, ingratiating thing men - who are men like this - do - when they want to be the men that they are - and he was like “no that’s really great. You should be proud…” and he just went on and on about my fantasy profession, like he was reading me a daily affirmation.

And I was like Shit, dude. I’m not even a divorce lawyer but all this stuff you’re saying is making me feel pretty positively towards divorce law and divorce lawyers and I sort of want to get into law.

But then I was also like, IM A FUCKING DIVORCE LAWYER. I’m a successful young ass woman doing something with my life, I don’t need no man to tell me what to be proud of.

And simultaneously, overwhelmingly, I was like, ugh my mother is a fucking divorce lawyer and she is awful and why did I just say that that’s what I am? I need to get out of here.

But really what I said was like “yeah thanks I guess it’s pretty cool that I’m a divorce lawyer. Thanks for believing in me, buddy. Objection, overruled, Legally Blonde.”

Then he told me that he lived very close to the bar we were at - on Mulberry street, a block up - and I don’t know what cocktail of diet pills, #Haribo (side note: it just occurred to me if I hash tagged Haribo right here I could really expand my reader base from five to somewhere between six and eight (year olds)… so that’s why I did that) and Pinot were in my system, but some vaguely racist, xenophobic light switch went off in me and I just started rambling to this dude about how absolutely insufferable the San Gennaro festival is. Like, MINUTES of talk.

I lost my audience pretty early on but once I got started I just couldn’t stop. “I’d die if I lived there. I mean, god. The only thing worse is the Puerto Rican day parade.”

Fireman (or whatever) Steve looked like I’d told him he’d be dead by the next San Gennaro (which, to be perfectly frank, would have been most upsetting to him because he’d have to miss the festivities) and opened his parted lips to say “I think it’s pretty great,” point out the window of the bar and shoot “my family and I have a stand there every year… since [like mad long ago. like, deadass, the first or second year of the festival. LIKE, THE PRIMORDIAL STAND.]” right into my frozen heart.

It was very sad and sweet and I was sorry for having spoken so poorly about this sacred tradition… But, like… I really hate that fucking festival.

And then things calmed down and I was bored and he was still Steve, the furniture salesman or pool repairman or crash dummy, and I was still expected to care or, at the very least, pretend to care but I really had to search for an email from 2010 (actually…) so I just started doing that.

And he… he made a humiliatingly feeble attempt to hurl himself into the conversation of the surrounding people and when that failed, he looked back at me and then down at my phone and asked what I was doing. (What I was doing was trying to find an email from 2010.)

Not since I was a professional babysitter have I been confronted with such impertinence. So naturally, I responded by explaining to him exactly what I was doing (what I was doing was trying to find an email from 2010) in nauseating detail.

“Do you have an iPhone? Oh…. What about a ME.COM account? Oh. No? Oh. Well. It’s like… All of the emails are, like, HERE… See? 34,131 more messages on server… But like you have to wait for them to load. And I’m searching a few different things because I’m not sure what its called or who I sent it to or really anything about it more than it’s a picture of a couch I need ASAP and it’s from 2010. I’ll find it. I’m going to find it. I know I will. It’s here. It’s just… Thing is… It’s from 2010. The email is. The couch is from earlier than that. It’s vintage. From an auction.”

The charade of him pretending to be interested in the intricacies of me dot com shocked me until, at 2:30am, when I went to leave the bar and was standing outside with my boyfriend, I saw this guy, from my periphery, hovering… and everything made sense. It had all been because he wanted to try to convince me to have sex with him, probably at his studio apartment on mulberry street, even after I’d insulted his culture, yearly pastime, intelligence and pushed him to the brink of insanity with my affected inanity.

Guys!!!!!!!!!

I have a boyfriend!!!!

Also fuck San Gennaro.

# people who are annoying

# things that are annoying

# this whole story was a lead up to the reveal of a bf

# bfs

# BEEN GONE FOR A MINUTE NOW IM BACK

# smh

Dick wished she had no background, that she was just a girl lost with no address save the night from which she had come.

Tender is the Night, Fitzgerald

# Tender is the Night

# fitzgerald

# lits

typical sunday night shit

Have you seen either of these bitches? (Taken with Instagram at The Dog House)

3 shades of crazy

Over the weekend, I bought drugs (not for me and with someone else’s $$$ of course. And by “drugs” I mean “dice”) for the first time in my life from a busboy at a restaurant in some shit town in New Jersey (at some point, unbeknownst to be, we’d crossed state lines; I never meant to leave New York) - which is another story - and the next day, the guy who sold the drugs to me sent me the following text message.

(I was with a guy who is not my boyfriend, a person I am sleeping with or a person I am even vaguely interested in sleeping with (also not a person interested in sleeping with me… to cover all bases.))

When I got that text, at first I was like “Ew gross, ugh, what?! Annoying. Leave me alone. Fuck. Now a drug dealer is going to be hitting my phone up.”

And then, as the day went on, I kept aggressively returning to our text convo (which was just that text), and getting progressively more angry and by the day’s end I was so furiously enraged I wanted to respond, letting him know I’m not a cheater and that he was being very presumptuous (and I would have liked to add a middle finger emojii.)

I mean, this dude thought the guy I was with was my boyfriend. He makes mention of this in his text, so it’s not like he saw us, wasn’t sure if we were boyfriend/girlfriend and then sent a casual text trying to hang out. He literally alludes to us being involved and straight up asks if I’m down.

Also, this is coming after a half hour conversation that consisted of him alternating between talking smack about some hobag ex girlfriend he’d broken up with less than 48 hours earlier for reasons of infidelity and trivial suburban bullshit I couldn’t really make sense of and lamenting their break and whining about how he’d probably get back together with her within days… and 12 hours later he’s tryna do her dirty on the sly. HOW YOU GON’ WIN WHEN YOU AIN’T RIGHT WITHIN, BOO?!

Wild disrespectful, my dude. I feel disrespected personally, on behalf of my non-boyfriend AND on behalf of your ex or current girlfriend.

Anyway, I got back to New York; I cooled down. I reread the text for the 97th time and I was like, “hmmm ‘let me see you,’ I like that.”

And now I’m really down. I want to let this dude see me.

What a weird and fascinating way to ask someone to hang out and in the very near future have sex with you. I’m fascinated by it. I am interested in allowing him to see me. I want to show my face and body parts to him.

So, that’s where I’m at: disgust, anger, acceptance.

WHO GON’ STOP ME, HUH???

# kidding; i am in no way going to respond to this guy

# rollercoaster of bullshit

# when i say drugs i mean candy.

# SHOW ME THE RECEIPTS

# this did not happen to me i did not buy drugs this picture was sent to me by a friend who buys drugs

# sour patch kids and twizzlers

# 50 shades of grey