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

My period came early and I am not here for any of y’all’s bullshit

I mean, at least it’s not the same day as Trump’s inauguration this time. But it is the same day as Trump being president, because that’s every day.

I’m sure y’all were wondering with bated breath, When will Leah post about her period again? It’s been an awfully long time. Is she pregnant? Let’s hope so, because then she and Beyoncé will have babies in the same year. But also, let’s hope not, because Trump is the president and also that Pepsi commercial with Kylie or Kendall or Kookie whatever the fuck exists now.

The reality is, I forgot. Because I was busy bleeding out of my vagina. Sue me.

This time, however, I did not forget. Because within the series of moments during which I discovered that my period came early, I was treated to a series of almost-as-exciting discoveries outside of my body.

I was feeling like I wanted some privacy (there must’ve been an instinct deep inside of me that knew my vagina was about to fuck me up) so I went straight to the single capacity bathrooms at work – AKA pooping bathrooms – and all were occupied but two. I went into the first one, and the seat was straight-up COVERED in pee. It was like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting, except instead of a paint brush that an artist purposefully draped over a canvas that no one sits on, it was a stupid fucking penis attached to a stupid fucking man.

I then proceeded into the other bathroom, and, lo and be-fucking-hold, the seat was up, y’all! What in the goddamn ass is going on? I work in a building with literally the smartest computer engineers in the country, who make hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars a year. These people have wives. These people have mothers. And I’m even more horrified to say that there are male coworkers of mine who think it’s fine to leave the seat up in a multi-sex/gender bathroom.

Every time a dude sits on a toilet seat covered in another dude’s piss, somewhere in the world a dog adopts a bunch of orphaned kittens.

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Anyway, after putting down the GOT-DAMNED seat that some piece of shit decided to leave up for my ass to take care of, I had to shove a piece of cylindrical cotton up my hoo ha and proceed back to my desk for several hours of bending double in pain, and I just don’t feel like being cool with dudes being garbage right now!

#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!

I’m on my period, Grand Canyon edition

If the universe didn’t want me to make a bunch of puns about the Grand Canyon and my period, it wouldn’t have brought my period while I was in Arizona to visit the Grand Canyon.

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to write this while I was actually there because I was too busy *~hiking~* and *~clutching my bloated tummy~* so I may be incapable of producing inspiring puns, particularly because I’m back in New York and there’s nothing red or arid or cavernous about this place. Also, I haven’t written here in ages so I feel a little out of practice.

Bae and I felt that, given the fart-filled balloon we’ve elected as president, we ought to go out and support our national parks while we still have the chance. Some day I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren that I shed my uterine lining while hiking the Grand Canyon. They’ll be filled with awe, like a pad bursting with blue fluid. Or they won’t even know what I’m talking about, because the Grand Canyon will have been filled with concrete to build a Google campus #justkiddinggoogle #idneverinsultyougoogle #iloveyougoogle

By the way, y’all, a body was airlifted out of the canyon the day before we came. I literally experience moments of fear walking down a hallway that I will just fall on my face spontaneously, and I somehow endured the Grand Canyon after finding out that someone had just fallen to their death. Unsurprisingly, most of the people who die in the canyon are men.

All right, that’s enough rambling.

Toni Erdmann

Last night Pat and I went to Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, an *~*art house cinema*~*, to see Toni Erdmann (which was super duper, by the way). As any sane person does, I proceeded straight to the concession stand as soon as I walked in to buy the largest amount of popcorn I thought I could safely consume.

First of all, the dude behind the counter was…I was going to say Eeyore, but it was beyond Eeyore. It was like Squidward and Eeyore mixed together. So, like a human being, I ordered a medium popcorn with butter. And Squeeyore, with no sense of shame whatsoever (in fact, it was possibly Squeeyore’s version of glee), he said “We don’t have butter here.”

Ex

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cuse me??

I don’t care if Kurosawa and Godard themselves christened your movie theater an “art house cinema.” You have motherfucking butter for my popcorn.

So extra.

Anyhow, I’ve been having all these weird stress dreams – in one of them I peed my pants in front of my boss, and in another I was the leader of an ancient ape tribe that was being overrun by Homo sapiens. No one said they were all relevant.

Metrograph Commissary, aka Hell

Alright, I’m about to get all suburban mom on y’all and I apologize in advance. I know I have the privilege, as a relatively average-looking white person, to be treated generally well when I enter customer service situations. But I also worked in service for seven years, including in fine dining. I know how to treat customers, even complete pieces of shit that make you wish voo doo worked. And, more importantly, I know how to treat people in service, and I know the necessity of giving them the benefit of the doubt because they may have just dealt with one of the aforementioned pieces of shit.

But litro, FUCK NEW YORK. Bae and I went to see the documentary Kedi, which, by the way, was cute as hell. I smiled so much during the film, which follows the street cats of Istanbul (like, are you kidding), that my cheeks were sore. The juxtaposition of the experience we had in the theater and the experience we had in the adjoining restaurant – oh sorry, commissary – was so stark that it was funnier than it was infuriating. But only by a little. So I was infuriated.

We made a reservation for 8:30, and the hostess gave us attitude right away. Bae and I were both like, okay, maybe it’s been a rough day for this rude-ass human. But then, we were led to the bar to wait for our table and almost smacked into George Michael Bluth. First sign the night was about to descend into a banana stand on fire.

We were seated after fifteen minutes, despite being right on time for our reservation, and despite the excruciatingly unhurried pace at which all of the staff were walking around the only partially occupied restaurant. Once she told us our table was ready and apologized with as much sincerity as Donald Trump saying, “There’s nobody that has more respect for women than I do,” Bae good-naturely responded with “No worries, it happens.”

She literally responded with “What happens?” Like, did you just start this job within the last hour? Also, are you an actual toddler?

Once she sat us, we remained at our table without menus or water for more than fifteen minutes. We glanced around at the waitstaff, floating about like blackflies inching towards death, but we were aggressively ignored by all. Finally I sheepishly (but overtly) waved at the hard-hearted harpy robot that was the hostess, and she lit-er-al-ly smiled right at me and kept walking only to lean on the hostess stand like a deflating bounce house.

We ended up leaving passive aggressively without looking at or speaking to her and proceeding to New York’s finest dining establishment, Shanghai Cafe Deluxe.

Anyway, protip: don’t eat at a restaurant that calls itself a fucking commissary or everyone will treat you like shit, unless you’re George Michael Bluth.

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What I Learned in SoulCycle Is

So, believe it or not, I returned to SoulCycle yesterday for another free class (after which I headed straight to the movies to see I Am Not Your Negro – can you imagine if James Baldwin was around for SoulCycle?), and spent much of the class pondering whether Shinzo Abe felt this same agonizing stretching of time, like a string of putty that refuses to break, as he shook hands with Donald Trump.

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Look, I’m sure Mr. Abe has had his share of unjust political actions, but no one deserves this.

Anyhow, SoulCycle. Seriously, how can a documentary about James Baldwin and a Britney Spears-themed spin class that costs thirty five bucks exist in the same city – in the same world? I’d love to hear what James Baldwin would make of SoulCycle – “sequestered rooms of imitated slavery, spawned by a desire to reduce guilt over true slavery and to deduce that the real slavery was not, indeed, so terrible.”

Like, my first bike in New York was 150 bucks. Five days of SoulCycle costs more than this. After I bought that bike, I proceeded to pay it back and then some by working as a bike messenger, delivering groceries, meals, and rent checks across the city. I made my living this way, and ate dollar pizza for almost every meal – I was hardly ever full. I couldn’t keep pounds on. Forget Trump – in what kind of dystopian world do we live if people will pay for SoulCycle when they can literally just get on a bike and go somewhere? And get paid for it?? I literally can’t even.

I’m not writing on this blog as much because I’m writing a something longform at the moment – and no, it’s not erotic world leader fiction. My mom told me it was offensive to write about a black man committing adultery.¯\_(ツ)_/¯