Summer

It is that time of year again when I am at greatest risk of accidentally having my slightly hairy thigh make contact with a far hairier, far less conscientious thigh due to the careless proliferation of body parts that characterizes men on the subway (and also, everywhere). I think it’s great that everyone is wearing shorts. I think body positivity is wonderful. But your thigh is just objectively gross, and keep it the fuck away from mine, k? As the age-old saying goes, “Your balls are not that big.”

It’s also the time of year when my comfort would be exponentially greater, given the sticky, sweltering heat that gathers all the streets of New York into a sweaty mass of metropolis that smells like an overturned garbage truck, if I could wear dresses every day, but when I still choose jeans and a t-shirt to avoid both the visibility of my crotch to everyone below me on any given subway stairway and unwanted attention from shitty dudes.

Sir, my ass is not there for you to ogle at like you’re watching fucking Chef’s Table. It is for me to sit on and for me to poop out of. Next time I see a dude staring creepily at a woman’s ass I’m going to get really close to his ear and whisper, “She poops out of that.” If he’s really being gross, I’ll be like, “She has explosive diarrhea out of that.”

See also:

  • Copious tourists, whose tanned arms emerging from singlets bearing the acronym “YOLO” inexplicably string across two poles on the subway, giving me the option of jabbing said singlet-bearing torso with my elbow or ducking under disgusting-ass, blond hair-covered armpits;
  • forgetting my office sweater at home and attempting to covertly shove my hands under my armpits like Mary Katherine Gallagher in order to warm them up in the Arctic office atmosphere;
  • Riding my bike to Coney Island, getting sand in my butt crack, riding my bike home from Coney Island with sand in my butt crack;
  • Chafing
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#pleasegoaway

The tourists have descended y’all. Like, who the motherfuck are all these people? It’s like yesterday New York was Trump’s inauguration, and today it’s Obama’s inauguration. I’m also grumpy as shit because I skipped several doses of medication last week by accident. Also, where is the f-u-c-k-i-n-g C train, ever??

I’m also moving at the end of the month and finding an apartment here is a fresh level of hell that I haven’t experienced yet, as previously I found rooms through other people. Now it’s just Bae and me, and we’ve seen like fifteen apartments in a week (I know I’m prone to hyperbole but that’s actually about how many we went to). Several of these were taken the day after we looked. It’s like we’re the male birds of paradise flashing our stupidly ostentatious feathers and the apartments are the dumpy-ass females. Except instead of obtaining the right to further our genetic information, we get the right to pay someone 2000 bucks to live in a bread box with a hot water heater in the kitchen and most likely a bunch of flattened rats covered with hardwood floors.

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No chill whatsoever

Fortunately there’s The Great British Bake Off, the Xanax of visual media. Good night!

Go see a star war

I was unable to take my Lexapro twice over the weekend because my garbage can psychiatrist didn’t get back to me in time, so I’ve basically been a black hole with legs this entire week so far. Hairy legs, to boot. Good thing it was fucking gale-ing outside like the whole goddamn world was ending (which it is). Just the cherry on top of my shit sundae.

I’m only now starting to feel like I did prior to the weekend and missing those doses, and my gratitude for having access to this medication has been deepening throughout the day. Was that how heavy everything felt before I started the Lexapro? I think perhaps I’ve been feeling a combination of that, the inauguration, and my frustration at work.

Plus, everybody else is all fucked up, too. Since the inauguration I’m certain I’ve seen less patience and more desperation in the people around me. I didn’t think New York could become a more suspicious and self-serving place, but it feels as though it has done so. Or perhaps I’m projecting onto the people around me.

Either way, there are a million things going on and I’ve barely been writing at all. I thought of turning this into a once-a-week blog, but I’m not going to. I’m supposed to be writing every day as a rule, not an exception. I should be writing about that dude that lit a cigarette next to me on the subway and the mom and daughter tourist duo that ogled as everyone else on the train actively ignored him with nonchalant intensity, like only New Yorkers can do. Or my thoughts on the women’s march and those who attended, many of whom had never marched in a protest before. Or how I went to see Star Wars and the dickheads behind me chatted the whole time like they were raised in a fucking barn.

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I wanted to make some joke about “alternative facts” but everyone else has already done a better job. Good luck out there, all of you.

I’m on my period, Inauguration Edition

Yesterday was full of…what’s the opposite of irony? Is irony too nebulous a concept to have an opposite? Well, yesterday was a little on-the-nose for me, in terms of the inauguration and its surrounding activities.

Yesterday at work we had to pull in some members of the larger team to help with some work our auxiliary team had. Most of this involved stuffing thousands of envelopes, an activity you will be surprised to find out some people don’t really know how to do. To be fair, it’s slightly more involved than just putting paper in an envelope because this is *~*~GoOgLe~*~* but not by a lot. Long story short, I ended up having to deal with training, organization, and direction above my pay grade, as I get paid less than the other two people on the team. Anyhow, to get to the point:

One of the auxiliary team members we grabbed was – surprise, surprise! – a mediocre, straight, wealthy white dude! Do you see where this is going? He put on the inauguration (to make fun of, no less) as we were stuffing envelopes, and the comparison was laughable. He stared intently into his computer screen, hands idle, while poorer, browner, gayer, and womanly-er people diligently stuffed envelopes around him, for literal hours. I was put in charge of a few people, who were all finished before everyone else (#HBIC), but not of him, so I didn’t feel comfortable telling him to get back to work – and the person who was in charge of him wasn’t doing anything. So, to spell it our for you dummies, while the rest of us did our work industriously, the one whitest, wealthiest white guy in the room sat around and watched the whitest, wealthiest white guy in the room get recognized for the most powerful position in the world (while I silently suffered from burning menstrual cramps, let me remind you). Also, he used sexist language and made fun of me when I called him out. This is a self-proclaimed male ally. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!

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#me

Shall we continue our on-the-nose journey?

Today is the women’s march, and I had planned to attend. But come on! I’m on my period, and the only tampons I have are the ones that you have to stuff up yourself like you’re in the goddamned Stone Age because those were the only ones they had in Slovenia, and I used my last good one last period. Like, I know you were Yugoslavia like five minutes ago, but get with the fucking picture!

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ProComfort my fucking ass – or should I say my vag.

But then again, statistically, 20 to 25 percent of the people in this march will be on their period (unless, of course, all those people decide to stay home). Why the fuck should I have to walk with no bathroom for five hours to protest the removal of my own rights while millions of men stay home on their comfy couches? I guess that’s the whole thing. STUPID IRONY!

I can’t be funny right now, y’all. My sense of humor is exiting my body with gusto in clumps of blood through my vag-hole. How about you make me laugh?!

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?

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small talk

We all know the running joke across the land that Mondays are terrible, but nobody even talks about the worst part of Mondays: fucking small talk.

“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Good, how are you?”
“Good, how was your weekend?”
“Good, how was yours?”
“Good.”
“If you say the word ‘good’ again I’m going to spray Windex in your eyes.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing, sorry, bye.”

UGHHH like they could’ve implemented that shit at Guantanamo and they would have learned everything they needed to know!!!

“Hey, man, what’ve you been up to?”
“Oh, not much. How’re you liking this weather?”
“It’s pretty good, yeah, a little chilly for my taste, but what’re you gonna do?”
“Ah, yeah. I personally like it a little cooler, so I’m looking forward to winter.”
“That’s good. What’re you up to this week- OH FUCK IT HE’S IN PAKISTAN JESUS H. CHRIST JUST LET ME EXIT THIS CONVERSATION”

 

Here’s a stock photo of “small talk” taken at an inexplicably odd angle:
Businessteam at a meeting

Good night!

Seasonal Affective Disorder

I’m moving right along with Little Women. It’s so fucking charming that it makes me want to bake a whole goddamn cake just for funsies. Or maybe just eat one.

google_sketchAnd this is the Google Doodle today! It’s like I have ESPN or something.

Seasonal Affective Disorder, whose acronym seems so on the nose that it’s almost inappropriate, is actually less SAD and more APATHETICFATIGUEDBOREDANXIOUSLISTLESSHOPELESSSEDENTARY. For me anyway. For example, it’s taking me literal actual hours to write this fucking post.

We’re singing Beethoven’s Ninth in choir which I was really excited about, but as it turns out, singing it brings about this unfortunate paradox in which your throat is somehow dry while simultaneously fifty percent of the air in front of your mouth is filled with spit. The piece has no chill whatsoever. But neither did Beethoven. I mean, look at him:

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That dude has definitely spent some quality time with a Fleshlight.

Speaking of Fleshlight, I just Wikipedia’d that shit (if you only knew the internet spirals I’ve descended into over the years) and learned this:

“In 2011, the company that manufactures Fleshlight sent a complimentary package of its products to the members of the SEALs team that killed Osama bin Laden.”

I’ll let y’all meditate on that. Enjoy this shitty-ass weather, friends.