Christmas, I’m On My Period Edition

My best friend accompanied us down for Christmas this year, so we have a full house. Lucky for everyone, we’re both on our period! #hormones  #bloated #NSYNC

To be accurate, we’re both pretty much done at this point, but instead of posting about my period I’ve been binge-watching Arrested Development with my family and farting up a storm. Because of the #fullerhouse, I’m sharing a bed with my mom, so I have to hold my farts in all night to spare her! Because I’m so #selfless.

The only restaurant open in my mom’s nabe last night was The World’s Most Mediocre Indian Restaurant, at which we spent the entire meal attempting to convince ourselves of the edibility of the food in front of us. We might’ve succeeded were it not for the roach that scurried across the carpet toward our booth in horrifying pursuit as we were waiting for the check. We were the only customers there, but somehow that made our shrieking and leaps onto the booth all the more embarrassing in front of the restaurant staff. Literal actual PTSD.

I thought I was going to write more but as it turns out, it’s 12:18 AM already.


The Wire af


I know the internet wasn’t at its most developed in the early 2000s, but I’m pretty sure The Wire‘s budget was significant enough to have better production value than this.

Also, here’s an exchange between two cops:
“What was he doing with that thing in his hand?”
“Probably sending a text message.”

Damn, that’s 2002 af. Can’t wait to see how dated Breaking Bad looks in 2025.

This morning on the train I met a family of tourists from Wyoming and I was like, “Wyoming’s not a myth?” I wanted to ask them if they helped elect He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to office, but then the mom mentioned that she was from Vermont and I was like “Not only is Wyoming not a myth, but The One and Only Democrat of Wyoming is also not a myth.”

Surely something interesting must have happened to me since the last time I wrote – my mom came into town over the weekend, after all – but all I can think of is that I’m on a Law and Order: SVU bender while I knit Christmas gifts for everyone on my list. My life is so fascinating, they should make a TV show about me.


Knitting, or the moral implications of lauding Manchester by the Sea

Yesterday on the train I was knitting a scarf, like ya do, and this woman sitting across from me confirmed a hypothesis I’ve been considering for the past year or so – “I like watching your knitting – it’s therapeutic.”

I thought so! I love knitting on the train because I find people’s eyes affixed, hypnotized, at the yarn moving steadily. It’s a genuine connection from others that lacks the creepiness of random staring. Plus, it’s therapeutic for me, too!

Thank fake Jesus because I need it. I saw, and was blown away by, Manchester by the Sea last weekend, and subsequently found out that Casey Affleck is a sexual predator and no one gives a shit – in fact, he’s slated to win the Oscar for best actor. Meanwhile, Nate Parker (who is also a sexual predator, by the way. Not excusing any of these garbage trucks) was dragged through the mud and lost all Oscar prospects when his sexual predation was pulled into the spotlight.

This certainly exhibits something about white privilege – a Brock Turner vs. Cory Batey situation, a situation that’s been playing out since the dawn of this fucking country. But it says something more about male privilege in general – and our (us being the public, and especially the female public) literal inability to trust any man in power. Nate Parker still has a fucking career, and his victim killed herself. Chris Brown. Bill Cosby. Woody Allen. The list is straight up endless, and y’all don’t need me to tell you. It hurts when you admire the art of a man who betrays you and shows what power did to his impulses; meanwhile,  the cognitive dissonance of masterful artists like Roman Polanski or David Bowie and their already well-known affinity for predatory actions, forces women to decide between enjoying art and acting in their own self-interest. Even my most woke male ally friends don’t seem to have this internal struggle.

A rock and a hard place, AKA oppression at its core. So fun!

As a little consolation prize for everything being so fucked up, enjoy these Google images of “friends knitting”:






Tough Titty Tuesday

Ugh! Some fucking rent-a-cop on a power trip just patronizingly told me to put my phone down – as I was in the process of doing so – because I was looking at it briefly while crossing the street at one of those intersections that tells you how many seconds you have left to cross (I had like fifteen!). Why do men think they can always tell women what to do in public, no matter what it is? By the way, condescending fuck, I’ve never run into anyone while looking at my phone. I ride a bike in New York City and I’ve never hit a car or pedestrian. I know how to pay attention to my goddamn surroundings.

In other words, this article is the story of my life right now (and all the time, tbh):

Screen Shot 2016-12-13 at 10.50.23 PM.png
Image, and my sanity, courtesy of The Onion

I’ve been cultivating my Resting Bitch Face for years in order to avoid all sorts of public demands from men, both spoken and implicit (such as not getting the fuck out of my way when I’m walking down the sidewalk, or not getting your nasty-ass thigh the fuck away from mine when we’re on the subway), but I still have a long way to go. You just watch, friends. I will become the Michelangelo of RBF.

Try My Ideas (TMI)

Why the actual fuck did I stay up until 3 AM the past two nights? My literal nightmare.

My preference is to be in bed at eleven, reading my book or knitting while watching The Wire, every night of the week. And yet I had to go and get myself invited to a goddamn party. What am I doing wrong?

I have, however, had some time to reflect and immerse myself in gratitude for my current state of mind – despite some unfortunate side effects, my anxiety has been reduced by Lexapro. The difference is noticeable, and not existing in a constant state of tension has made life so much more bearable. I can glean humor out of the frustration of living in this city. I can complain sardonically instead of holding all my fear and panic inside. My mom always said that if she heard me complain, she knew I was fine. It was when there was something really wrong that I wouldn’t say anything.

For much of the summer I was afraid to eat because I would have stomach aches and nausea so often. Nausea induced panic, because I have a phobia of vomiting. I didn’t realize at the time that it was a cycle – being anxious would cause nausea; having nausea would cause anxiety. I saw a gastroenterologist, I changed my diet, I took Nexium, I stopped drinking alcohol and coffee, I kept Pepto Bismol with me at all times. Mostly, I lived in a constant state of fear. I didn’t have any way of blowing off steam because I was too scared to drink or smoke pot.

I’m not sure when I realized how closely intertwined the stomach problems were with the anxiety. I think it was when I drove back from a wedding in North Carolina over the summer and felt my blood vessels constrict as I emerged from the Holland Tunnel into the stark reality of the city. This happens every time I return to the city, but it doesn’t feel so present once I’ve been here for awhile. It’s like the frog in the boiling water or whatever.

It’s not just the city, either. I mean, I’m a millennial two years out of college working at a monotonous job, full of existential dread and rage over being cat-called and leered at all the goddamn time, trying to figure out what the fuck I want to do with my life. Also Donald fucking Trump is going to be our next president. I have to give myself a damn break sometimes!

Is this all TMI as fuck? It’s just become so clear to me over the past few months that everyone is terrified of talking about their own experiences of this shit for fear of everyone thinking they’re a freak. Well, fortunately everyone already knows I’m a freak. So hopefully somebody is reading this and is like “Whoa this bitch is just as psycho as I am! Hell yeah!”

Anyhow, the main takeaway here is that now I can eat ice cream without having a panic attack, and that’s all anyone really wants, right?




Today is Santacon, the day when a bunch of dumb fucks from Staten Island and Jersey come into Manhattan and make everyone hate it even more than they already do. It starts at ten AM (aka before I woke up) and ends when everyone is passed out in a gutter in Midtown. Thus, I will not be heading into Manhattan today. Not like I was going to anyway. God, I’m a curmudgeon!


I think I’m feeling grouchy because of that age-old catch-22: I feel like shit when I don’t do anything, but I don’t want to do anything. Instead of going to a party in Queens that would set me back twenty-five bucks for a cab home last night, I vegetated with bagel chips and Law and Order: SVU until 2:30 AM. It wasn’t even the good ones with Stabler in them! Netflix only has the most recent few seasons. Somehow Ice T is still on there though, after fifteen years of his only line being “That’s messed up.”

It also doesn’t help that the weather is on a steep incline from “bearable” to “Rip Van Winkling myself until May.”

By the way, after Wikipedia-ing “Rip Van Winkle” to make sure I was using that reference correctly (my blog should just be called “commentary on Wikipedia“), I’ve discovered that the whole debacle was caused by Rip Van Winkle being lazy as fuck and wanting to get away from his “nagging” wife, who was basically just like “Can you please work so we don’t die of starvation and whatnot.” What a piece of shit.

Well, I think that’s enough complaining for today.



A Charlie Brown Christmas

I just realized it is now appropriate for me to listen to A Charlie Brown Christmas on repeat for the next three weeks!!


I’m feeling festive as fuck, y’all. Probably because I’m feeling homesick, which started earlier today but truly culminated when I got on the train this evening and the floor was as sticky as the floor of that Hell’s Kitchen gay bar that shows hardcore porn on the monitors.

We didn’t even have Christmas when I was a kid – we added it to the holiday repertory when our step-family entered the picture, but that wasn’t until the end of my elementary school career. It was too late to recover from years of solitary popsicle stick Jewish Stars, surrounded by smugly cheerful Christmas Trees on the walls of my elementary school classrooms. Luckily I didn’t give a fuck, because unlike these dumb-dumbs, I knew the whole Santa Claus thing was bullshit.

Still, I can’t help but feel hella warm and fuzzy inside when I listen to this music. It makes the prospect of four months of slipping and sliding all over garbage-strewn ice much more palatable to my delicate constitution.