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.
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.