I love the idea of Hawaiian shirts, and that they’ve become a genre of their own, and how they shouldn’t be so common but they’re everywhere, they’re ubiquitous, they’re whole sections of certain thrift stores, cheerfully acknowledging cultural appropriation in a sloppy way, like when I say to the cooks at work, “no cebolla” even though they know the word onion, they obviously work in a kitchen
Now join me as we mourn forehead sweat that makes your bangs look terrible, legs that you thought were shaven but in the light appear to be very, very stubbly, sailing lessons rescheduled ad nauseum, boyfriends traveling the world and the persistent hum of in-window air conditioning units.
These things aren’t bad things nor good things, they’re just things. They’re fact. They’re what happens when children get to live alone and accrue bills and choose how to pay for the things in their lives.
They give way to the all too fetishized fall, the leaves, the scarves, the cardigans, god forbid I forget the pumpkin spiced latte’s, the school supplies, the boots, the tights, the vague feeling of promise and a clean slate without the pressure of New Year’s.
These things aren’t bad things nor good things, they’re just things. They’re the same as the summer things. You can change the season but your gut is going to look the same in a two piece as it does a cowl-neck sweater and your existential dread is going to see the same sadness in a dead tree as it does in hot weather crime statistics.
I will no longer say I am goal oriented, detail oriented or anything other than disoriented. Those terms are now cliches with no meaning other than “I am boring, uncreative and if thats not enough, totally phony.”
“Why do I do anything? she says. I’m educated enough to talk myself out of any plan. To deconstruct any fantasy. Explain away any goal. I’m so smart I can negate any dream.”—Chuck Palahniuk (via kateoplis)
Not that it’s something anyone’s concerned about, but a quick way to lose my respect is to post a photo of a stranger on the internet-taken secretly like a fucking coward-for the purpose of making fun of them.
This goes for sites like People of Walmart, of course, but this especially goes for friends who posts pictures of non consenting strangers on Instagram. How fucking lame and low do you have to be?
Someday you’re going to be the subject of someone’s shitty Instagram, when you’re feeling defeated, or earnest, or good, or are just picking your nose.
I’ve been told many times in a matter of fact tone that I’m a bitch. But I’m not a monster.
I remember a very cold day in high school. In first period, everyone was giving Alex Dow shit for wearing shorts, a long sleeved shirt and a beanie. He explained that as long as your head (and presumably upper half) is warm, your body will maintain a comfortable temperature. I don’t think that’s true, but he’s a pharmacist now so what do I know?
Here’s an airport stunt from Heineken that truly embodies the brand’s adventurous spirit. Twice this week, Wieden + Kennedy in New York set up a board at JFK’s Terminal 8 and dared travelers to play “Departure Roulette”—changing their destination to a more exotic location with the press of a button.
Once, in my kitchen I found a napkin my mom had doodled on. She didn’t often doodle, so this was curious. She’d written a few lyrics from “Yesterday” by The Beatles. “How depressing,” I thought and think.
To the ex-boyfriend I hardly remember and haven’t talked to since high school,
Hello! I hope you’re well! As far as I have been able to glean from your Facebook activity (and only your Facebook activity, as we have no real communication or mutual friends) it seems you’re in an exciting time!
I must admit, I was surprised to see you became a Christian, started eating meat, moved to Thailand to become a missionary and married a Christian Thai lady. However, good for you! I’ve changed a lot since we knew each other, too.
First of all, I think I’ve been very humbled by my underemployment, and have lost my entitled attitude and worldview. I’ve also ditched all the shitty friends. I’ve always liked spending time alone, but was a little off-put by the stigma of being a loner. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of friends (something else I’m proud of-all the friends I’ve made in this city) but I no longer give a shit if anyone judges nights spent at home. In fact, none of my friends would judge me for spending a night alone. (Did I mention I ditched the shitty friends?)
Unfortunately, I feel like in the past few years, I’m a hard person to get to know. I’m working on this. It’s not that I’m withholding anything; in fact, I’m more open and honest and vulnerable than ever! It’s just that I forget how to become truly close to new people. Maybe that’s part of adult friendships. There’s such intimacy with the friends you’ve known your whole life, but is that only because they’ve known you since you both can remember? Is there a way to simulate that with the new friends in your life?
I’ve been in a great relationship for what’s coming up on five years. I haven’t always been perfect, but I feel like he’s shown me how to be a better person. Not in an “I started exercising and stopped eating junk food!” way, but in a way where I can truly care about his success as much as mine and I can pause to deeply consider his perspective before getting mad about any little thing. Sometimes I take a step back and am a little in awe of how much I’ve matured emotionally over the course of these five years.
That brings me back to you-I’m so happy for your new life, too. I’ve never been to Thailand, but I’m glad you’ve made a new home and have a new wife and you two have started a small cafe! But please don’t be offended that I declined to “Like” the Facebook Page for your cafe in Thailand. I have no delusions-I know you didn’t think about me specifically to invite to “Like” your page. I know you probably selected every Facebook friend you have, every old bandmate, every two night stand, every distant, dead branch on your family tree. But no thanks.
I keep having dreams that I’m married to Steve Martin. There are certainly worse things to dream!
The first dream starts as we are celebrating our wedding. We are on a large boat, and there is a party with all our celebrity and non-celebrity friends all acting celebratory. Everyone was so full of joy. Eventually, we snuck off the boat (which I guess was docked) to have a private moment. We were walking along the water when I began to go into labor. Soon, I gave birth to a small duck-person which fit in the palm of my hand. It didn’t have limbs, but just a circle for a body and big duck lips and two sunken-in holes where eyes should be.
In the second dream, I met his daughter and son, both college-aged. Though I was barely older than them, we got along swimmingly. I think his son might have even had a crush on me! Then Steve went off to tour with his band. I met him in Toronto in a rented car in the rain.
you don’t have to hang out with people you don’t like
you don’t have to try to be likable
the most punk rock/badass/nonconformist thing you can do is be honest and vulnerable
mind games are for people with nothing better to do
you need to be your own ideal mate
most of your classmates are boring and cowardly, don’t fear them
things they do tell you in high school but you don’t listen to:
do your homework. even if it’s stupid and pointless. even if you hate it. BECAUSE getting good grades will help you get into as many colleges as possible and open as any doors as possible for you. then you’ll be able to choose what you want, instead of being stuck with no options.
you truly won’t even remember any of these people in a few years.
my boyfriend: I was at work today and overheard two, like, thirteen year old boys talking when one of them goes “And her makeup was questionable.” I wanted to YELL at them “WOMEN SHOULDN’T EVEN HAVE TO WEAR MAKEUP, AND THEY DO BECAUSE OF SHITHEADS LIKE YOU CREATING THIS MISOGYNISTIC SOCIETY AND IF A WOMAN WANTS TO WEAR MAKEUP IT’S NOT FOR YOUR JUDGMENT AND THEIR BODIES DONT EXIST FOR YOU TO HAVE OPINIONS OF THEM” but I didn’t.”
I know I’ll never write a memoir because I can’t remember anything.
Every day I find myself grasping for a name or a date or something I’ve learned in a $3,000 class and I come up short.
My mom’s birthday-I’ve called and texted her probably ten times this year asking what day her birthday is. I did this a few days ago. Without looking, I can tell you it’s sometime in November 1957. Hey, that’s progress.
It’s funny to not have a memory. Every day people pop up on my Facebook feed who I can’t remember at all. Last week a former classmate was arrested for distributing child pornography. It took me a while to remember who he was. I just remembered that he played basketball and football and was very quiet. I know I’ve interacted with him. I think we may have hung out a few times. But I could be wrong. I don’t remember anything.
I’m not sure why I have a bad memory. Maybe it’s my diet. Maybe it’s genetics. Maybe I just don’t give a shit.