trilobites ‘n club beats

the girl that lives below me’s name is archit spanegola hedge. i’m sure she’s perfectly nice (actually i know she’s not) but the fact is that her name makes me feel falsely entitled to do things like stomp+clap in time with david guetta’s “titanium” whilst wearing my newly purchased forever 21 pajama set, which loosely aspires to be french chic, is pastel pink rimmed, and has cursive smears of phrases like “apres moi!” and “a propos” all over it. i do this with needless fervor and then laugh to myself. it’s decadent. anyways this archit is sort of rude, she’s shunned me in our limited encounters ever since i refused to sample some of her “lavendar soda,” which she was sipping sassily on our walk-up stoop. *my thought process: she is sipping a soda flavor that does not exist and smiling vigorously, i should not acquiesce.* she’s a fashion major and wears weird cloth-y things which i think look like scrubs but which are probably very chic. sometimes when my roommate and i are feeling devilish we play the penis game but replace penis with “awwww-shit!” which means archit and take turns smiling even though it’s not funny/she doesn’t hear it/it’s an absurd waste of time. 

stomp stomp

now pitbull’s “back in time is playing” and i’m crankin’ it because a mish-mash of pop culture is trash-compacting in my brain and the remixed silvia and mickey oldie is harkening dirty dancing and mad men which makes this otherwise creepy song crackishly appealing because i can see patrick swayze shashaying in the background and don draper applying tanning oil to his statuesque back.

stompstompstomp 

i learn what “bitters” are today

i started watching the hbo show girls because billboards told me to. i was hesitant because i love sex and the city, and girls promised to be its antithesis. i pictured zooey deschanel iconically poised in every scene… sipping chai tea stage left, occupying wall street soft focus, indulging, as hipsters do, in a passé art: curing meats, polishing silver or adjusting a horn-rimmed monocle– a fanfare of cultural savviness inciting a community urge to compete for the most obsolete pastime, so that they can give a class on “how to give your canary flaxen hair.” …….

i pictured a lot of what i saw when i actually watched the show. and i was right that the show would capitalize on the tender wound of my new york experience: me being a girl, 22, working (basically) for free, being academically over qualified but disastrously unemployable from lack of standardized experience and schmooze capabilities, and frustrated, as ever, by a fragmented society where one must subscribe to the cultural values of external forces: neighborhoods (hanna: “i live in greenpoint, not williamsburg, big difference!”), music, education, race. in the same way you hate your doppleganger, i hate this show (though i like to think i’d be somewhere in between carrie and hanna, aesthetically and in terms of material needs). and the writing is so good, lena dunham is the tina fey of this dark-umentary of nyc girl life. ultimately, any girl on the show and any girl watching the show just wants to be lena, because now she’s famous for being such a smart writer, for creating a story and sentences that are so piercingly true that we are repulsed by the inherent narcissism of watching our lives recapitulated on the big (or laptop) screen.

 

my drink at dinner tonight was called “alfonso” and it had ingredients: bitters, ginger, brut, and vermouth. i didn’t know what bitters were but my friend told me. they’re not the categorical taste mentally added to your cocktail (“here sir, your drink is CONCEPTUALLY bitter”), they’re THINGS, real things, distilled from fruits and herbs and possess individual flavor.

i think girls is bitters; i think i’m bitters too some of the time. i don’t like it, and i think that’s why i won’t watch the show anymore.

crunch time. ya hurd, schopenhauer!

it’s crunch time for my bachelor video application. as you recall, oh trusty reader, i applied to be on the show. in a wine-infused typographical fury, i sputtered my hopes and dreams into a 500-character capped box and pressed SUBMIT. phewph. now some intern in burbank, CA, knows about my grimy ex and psuedo-surrrious romantic aspirations. don’t judge, honey mama. one day you too will be 22 and prioritize your rent and smelling good over finding hotties in the club! or… you are 22 and in a door-opening internship at The Bachelor headquarters and contemplating whether or not to buy color ‘clambake’ or ‘baby’s breath’ polish SO THAT you can look good in da club. 

 

i digress. i need to make my video application, and so these are the scenarios i’m considering filming. 

1) myself, dancing rabidly to hoodie allen’s ‘no interruption’ wearing nothing but neon pool floaties 

2) silent take after take of me attempting to moonwalk (the most boring option) 

3) in the financial district, surreptitiously approaching men from behind with a hip thrust and thumbs-upping the camera

 

which do you like?!  

i’ll never eat cake (cakecakecakecakecekakerj) ever again.

i want to cry, why is rihanna enticing chris brown to eat her birthday cake, sweeter than a rice cake, and to write his name on it? what would he write? HERE’S 24 BIRTHDAY SPANKINGS, RI-TARD! and…daddy make a wish and put this cake in my face?! arg! county fair pie tosses are HERETOFORE RUINED! not to mention singing “if you’re sexy and you know it” to my infantile babysitting clientele. 

also, what the hell did i write in my last post? did i really make a mary poppins currency joke? i think my halting attempts to start the corrections has me hot on franzen’s italics trail. if he can do it, why can’t i?! i can be his mary karr if i want to. 

mmm rice cake time. 

descent of the italics, textual locusts

trying to file my taxes but impeded by sudden jolts bitterness, guttural frakking, at the witholdings from my stipend. it’s americorps for chrissakes, holden caulfield! it is a gross abomination of mind and spirit! i cannot fund my daily dalliances on tuppins-a-bag! did you know sacagawea resides in the upper east side? there is a corn husk barterer loose on the town! (me in duane reade: “can i swipe my corn husk?” “what?” “swipe my-” “ay fuck you ma’am!”). whole foods, “can i pay for this corn cob with corn husks?” cab driver, “42nd and madison please. cash or corn husk?” bachelorette party, “HEYYY husk papa!” oh, actually. ew.

so i’m off to http://www.bethlehem to be taxed and, lo! someone invited the feds (all wearing the shroud of turin) for dinner! and they’re trying to trim the fat off our main-course of grasshopper avec bones! well bon appetite assholes! I’ll just vote for santorum! (impetuous giggle, slight twitch, frown).

ugh just took a sip of my water and it’s brackish. 

secondly, last night my friend conceded her love of swarthy dark haired men, a congruously referring to her previous concession about her own swarthy, dark leg hair.

lastly, sitting on the dock of a bay is the most genius song. otis redding’s voice is god, but the lyrics, that’s some existential shit!! beautiful art doesn’t know if it’s happy or sad, light or dark, and it shouldn’t decide. I think it’s the musical incarnation of this good old h. wad’s words, oh jesus, I mean henry wadsworth longfellow (don’t let me do that again)…

“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.”