I’m on My Period: I Forgot to Bring Tampons on My Trip Edition

Hello friends. It’s that time you look forward to each month, when I entreat you to the gory details of my Aunt Flo, or what I like to call “the shedding of my uterine lining” because it’s fucking 2017 and I don’t need to use a euphemism for that. Thank you very much.

I’m on my way back from said trip on the Chinatown bus, very much enjoying the man next to me melting into my seat. Is it, like, not in men’s range of emotion to pull in their excess body parts? I feel like I’m surrounded by goddamn amoebas. Get it the fuck together, men.

Am I feeling bitter, you ask? How could you tell? When I was on birth control I didn’t have a period, and now my cramps are back to being so bad that I get both sweaty and chilly like I have a fever, except I still have to go work and be surrounded by mediocre men while I do their jobs. LOL omg so fun.

At least I didn’t start my period while I was on the Chinatown bus. I can feel grateful to fake Jesus for that.

Now this dude is passed the fuck out. He’s doing that sleep apnea thing where you’re like, are you dead? And then they gasp for air and you’re like, oh I guess you’re fine. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to watch this video of a chimpanzee making a hammock and the goddamn internet is too slow. WOE IS ME!!

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)_/¯

SoulCycle

Y’all are not gonna motherfucking believe this, but I went to SoulCycle today. They’re running a promotion for those of us graced by the light of Google, and I got to enjoy being shouted at in the dark for forty-five minutes for free, if you can believe it.

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Ok so first of all, the World’s Tightest Ass occupied the bike in front of me, emblazoned with the Lululemon logo (to be fair, I was wearing Lululemon leggings too, but only because I snatched them out of the Google donation bin when no one was watching like a fucking ogre) and topped by a torso wearing a SoulCycle shirt. Like, have you ever looked in the mirror? I mean, obviously you look in the mirror, like if I looked like you I would have a mirror surgically installed on my body to face myself at all times. But like…you wearing that shirt is like an Abercrombie sweat shop worker buying an Abercrombie shirt and wearing it to work at the sweat shop, except for the sweat shop pays them instead of them paying it.

Can you imagine a sweat shop worker somehow stumbling into a SoulCycle class? You are paying someone to scream at you in a room that smells and feels like a teenager’s Dutch oven while you work your ass off and sweat balls. In fact, I bet that in five years we’ll find out that SoulCycle has actually been gathering kinetic energy from all of us idiots and selling it to Con Ed for a sweet profit. This is some Black Mirror shit if I’ve ever seen it.

Halfway through the class I felt like I was gonna poop my pants, because it was so fucking hot in the room. If there’s something I can be proud of in my life, it’s that I’ve made it this far without pooping my pants. I kept pedaling, weighing my options. Poop my pants, or get up in front of this entire room of active wear models and TV movie CEOs and Disney Princesses and leave the room to cool off. I ended up risking the former to avoid the latter. This is the kind of environment I chose to be in for forty-five minutes today. This is why people end up as sister wives, y’all!

I really, truly, honestly have no interest in looking like that. It would make the descent into flabby old age that much steeper. Plus, I fucking love cake. The only reason I work out is so that I can write in my blog and eat cookie butter straight out of the jar.

Anyway, I have two more free classes, and I’m definitely going to go to them.

erotic world leader fiction

I’m starting to think that Erotic World Leader Fiction may be my calling. If only there were more good looking world leaders. North America had that shit on lock, and then the United States had to fuck it all up by electing the World’s Most Hideous Man to be its world leader.

Maybe I can survive the next four years (or maybe the next four days, the way it’s going right now – fuck yeah ACLU!) by delving into the past. Barry and Justin’s steamy romance will keep me afloat in these dark times. If any of y’all are interested in that, let me know.

Speaking of letting me know, I’m always looking for feedback. So far, I get the most traffic on recurring posts, like reviews of music, books and movies, and my period posts. My blog has no theme (a friend calls it the anti-blog), so I literally have no direction. I’m like one of those homing pigeons with a magnet tied to its head for experimental reasons, just flying around in circles until I drop out of the sky from exhaustion. Too dark? Get used to it, because Donald fucking Trump is the president, in case you haven’t noticed.

On that note, enjoy these photos of world leaders that may or may not fire up your Air Force One.

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hoo! *fans self*
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meeeeow!
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who, me?
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bow chicka wow wow
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k sry but like come on
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my god
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like, are you joking
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jesus take the wheel
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i’m dead bye

The end of an er(otic)a

For a brief, shining moment in history that will never be forgotten, all three North American leaders were hot dudes. And I feel like we didn’t take full, or even partial, advantage of it! Where are the photoshopped kisses between Obama and Trudeau? Where are the steamy fan fiction threesomes? Where is the secret plan between Peña Nieto and Trudeau to exclude Obama from NAFTA out of jealousy of Michelle? Maybe Joe Biden could even have made an appearance here and there. And we missed our chance! Now, sandwiched between two sexy minxes of the north and south, is our new ball of pus of a president.

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“The White House” is obviously code for something else.

I mean, come on! Tell me the legalization of gay marriage during Obama’s presidency was a coincidence. Look at these two!


“Come on, Barry,” Justin whispered as he tugged playfully on Barack’s tie. “Just one more minute.”

The two had already been in the bathroom for over five minutes, but it sure didn’t feel like it.

“Justin, this has to be the last time. When I was out of breath before the State of the Union, I’m certain Michelle looked at me differently. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she knows something is going on.” He drew his eyes downward, trying to hide the film of tears collecting in his water line. He knew he had to be strong. For Michelle. For the United States of America.

“But Barry!” Justin’s playfulness had dissolved. “I need you.”


Tell me you’re not dying to read more! Not because of my writing, but because of the compelling nature of their forbidden relationship. Maybe I should make a career out of erotic world leader fiction.