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.

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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.

Happy New Year

This morning as I was trudging down 15th Street, crammed between the stench of Chelsea Market and what feels like the world’s most long-lived construction site, I passed a hard-looking black guy bounding down the rain-shrouded sidewalk exactly, and I mean exactly, like this:

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The vision of his cartoonish joy coupled with the remnants of my own vacation contentment nudged the day into “good,” perhaps even “great,” and I couldn’t help but feel optimistic for the coming year.

This is especially surprising given that ahead of us lies the coldest phase of winter in New York. Plus, it appears to me as though the throngs of tourists clogging up the streets prior to Christmas have barely diminished. As anyone who has visited New York in the month of December knows, pre-Christmas in the city is what Dante based his Inferno on.

Nonetheless, and despite the fearful nature of our political future, there’s a sense of renewal and positivity in the air. Each interaction with a stranger is accompanied by a “Happy New Year!” and there seems to be the ghost of a smile on more than the usual number of faces.

Or maybe I just accidentally took more than one dose of Lexapro this morning.

Either way, it’s cool with me. I hope y’all are feeling good this evening; and if you’re not, at least your roommates aren’t watching a TV show with a laugh track on it. That’s all.

Santacon

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!

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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!!

FUCK YESSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!

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.

“fucking video blog”

One thing that’s kickass about the internet is that I can tell what people Googled in order to find my blog (well, it says “search engine,” but if y’all are going around Altavista-ing things then we need to have a talk).

I’d hate to see the disappointment on the face of the person that searched “fucking video blog” and found my blog instead.

No Shave November is coming to an end as of tomorrow, and I will be celebrating by continuing to not shave my legs until the rest of time or until my legs get hot, whichever comes first. I used to lament wearing a bike helmet for the loss of the “wind through the hair” sensation, but now my leg hair is long enough to blow in the wind and reproduce that freeing feeling.

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I think people assume that I’m trying to make a statement or some shit, but in reality I just got in the shower one day and thought, “I don’t feel like shaving my legs.” And then the next day the same thing happened. And then the day after that, and all the other days after that. The problem is that when I do decide my legs are getting hot, I’ll have to take like a week off from work to shave them.

Hope y’all are enjoying this Seattle-ass weather. What the fuck.