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

#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.

ekjoxwr
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.

anigif_enhanced-buzz-31092-1369081284-6

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.

Doughnuts Go Nuts

I’m feeling hella burned out after a day of disappointment and rejection, and in preparation for a horrifying presidential inauguration. Thank fake Jesus for Yoga with Adriene, or I might have torn my adorable armadillo-shaped table lamp from the wall and pitched it from my bedroom window, with no regard to human, plant, or porcelain armadillo life. Also, thank fake Jesus for Elizabeth Warren, with whom, in my dreams, I am sister wives to Adriene, of Yoga with Adriene.

Is that weird? Is it as weird as this guy going into the subway at Barclays Center?

img_0088

If so, I really need to have a conversation with myself.

Actually, I don’t give a fuck. Rejection has a way of either constricting you into a more acceptable position or softening your shame muscles into a glorious man-spread of not-giving-a-fuck-dom. I’m being vague for job reasons, because this stupid fucking blog is public. Y’all know that if it wasn’t, I’d be talking some real shit.

Like the fuckhead at Google that left the GODDAMN seat up when he left the bathroom right before me! Like, he looked me in the eye as he left, leaving the seat up. How do grown men in their thirties and forties live their entire lives without learning the habit of putting the seat down? I started dating someone who liked the lid down when the toilet is flushed to avoid nasty-ass butt germs flying around the bathroom like disgusting, tiny hang gliders, and it took me like a week to develop the habit of putting the lid down. Why are men so fucking dumb and inconsiderate? And before you bang your chest and exclaim, “Not all men!” to no one in particular, calm the fuck down. It’s just your hormones.

After days like today and yesterday, I treat myself with a movie and popcorn for dinner, companion optional. I took the Q to get home, which means walking by Doughnut Plant, and I resisted getting a doughnut. I feel like I deserve a fucking Nobel Prize for that restraint. If I’m being completely honest with you, though, it was only because I got one from there yesterday and earlier in the week too.

When I Googled “eating doughnuts stock photo,” like you do, a significant amount of the images featured pregnant women. Is that a thing? If so, sign me up!

 

 

 

jk mom

Resting Rage Face

I’ve been ragey as fuck all week because of the way mediocre white dudes get ahead while the women around them do the same work with more competence and grace – both in my life, and also in the collective life of our country in terms of our incoming executive branch.

Also because I have spent an inordinate amount of time this weird-weather-week with the exclamation, “Where the motherfuck is the C train?” flooding my brain as multiple E trains (which don’t even go to Brooklyn; they literally stop at the World Trade Center; why do they even run downtown in the evening, god fucking dammit) pass and A trains smugly enter and exit the station, half full.

When one little thing (nothing big, just the crushing weight of the patriarchy over all of us) is irking me, everything else seems so much more annoying. Some dude was spreading his legs like he was fucking crowning on the crowded-ass train this morning and I wanted to javelin my knitting needle straight into his crotch. Too violent? I think the real tragedy in that hypothetical scenario is potentially losing my knitting needle to some shithead’s crotch.

200_s

To temper my impending insanity I’m doing the 31-day Yoga Revolution with Adriene, the new queen goddess of my heart. She is everything. Yoga is…something, I guess. I can finally touch my toes, and it’s like exercising, except you mostly get to sit during it. So I can get down with that. Now I just need to get a yoga mat instead of using my lambskin rug like a fucking Neanderthal.

The Wire af

streetdrugs.png

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”:

people-knitting

6a00e55355c0d188330153923bd737970b-450wi

girlsknit

tumblr_lhoc0aoolq1qffeabo1_500-aresohappy