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A Day in the Life

Jun. 24th, 2010

09:38 am

It's not all Friends-Only, but all of the juicy stuff is.

And admit it–you're only here for the juicy stuff.

Incidentally, I think juicy is one of the grossest words ever.

Aug. 16th, 2006

01:45 pm

So I know I made that disclaimer about not being offended if you don't read my new journal, but there are some of you who are clearly just not adding me out of spite.

Seriously, I'm never posting here again. And you're going to miss me and all of my Friends-Only entries sooner or later.

But mostly sooner.

evelynnash, fools.

Aug. 13th, 2006

07:50 pm

Okay. I've made a post on evelynnash. I think I'm going to start using it. For real.

Please add me if you like me. If you don't like me–if you find yourself filtering me out of your entries or skimming my journal 'cause I'm so mundane–feel free to pretend like you never saw this. I'd rather have a small Friends list full of people I love than a bloated one full of people I have no relationship with. I won't be offended.

And . . . GO.

Aug. 9th, 2006

11:04 am - The title of my mixtape, in case you're interested, is "You Wanna See My Peccadillos?" HOTT!

I'm right in the middle of hardcore making a mixtape of the best Bush songs for one of my friends who completely missed the 90s, and I can't believe I'd forgotten how much I love them. I mean, when people ask me about my favourite bands growing up, Bush is usually right behind silverchair on my list, but I always kind of laugh about how crazy-obsessed my best friend trrrracey and I were with them back then. Listening to their stuff again now, though, I've realised that no, they're actually the AWESOMEST FUCKING BAND ON EARTH, and I don't need to laugh.

Go ahead. Listen to "Testosterone" and try to tell me that these aren't the greatest lyrics ever:

I'm a man
I'm real proud of my manhood
I like to smoke
Ten thousand cigarillos

Eight ball
I could climb any fountains
I never cry
I only bawl when I'm losing

And I've never been wrong
Never been wrong
Never been wrong

And I'm looking so good
Looking so good
Looking so good

Got a big gold gun
Got a big gold gun
Got a big gold bullet

And I guess you could say
And I guess you could say
I'm real full of it
I'm real full of it
I'm real full of it

I'm real straight
You wanna see my peccadillos?
Hot dog 7:30 every morning

And I'm big into war
Big into war
Big into war

I am a whore
I am a whore
I am a whore

Got a big gold gun
Got a big gold gun
Got a big gold bullet

And I guess you could say
And I guess you could say
I'm real full of it
I'm real full of it
You're real full of it
We're real full of it

And I shave with Gillette
Shave with Gillette
Shave with Gillette

And I'm patting my back
Patting my back
Patting my back

Come on! There's a line about hot dogs, for God's sake.

Aug. 8th, 2006

11:44 am - Spread the News Far and Wide, Hummer-Haters and Meredith-Lovers

My friend Meredith left me alone in her apartment last week while she went home to Idaho and totally failed to bring me back a tie-dyed t-shirt covered in wolves howling at a full moon. Still, living in her apartment has taught me how to kill cockroaches with miscellaneous household items such as boxes of oatmeal and toilet seats, so I can't complain.

Her fifteen minutes of fame just began recently–I'm talking NPR interviews and New Yorker articles–and it's my intent to see that her brush with immense popularity is as rich and full an experience as possible. Hence:


It's a project started by Meredith, her chum Tim, and Jason, the well-coiffed dude who's living in her apartment with us at the moment. And it's not meant to defile women in any way, despite the fact that people leave comments like, "rape that bitch, her and her big ass are asking for it."

So can it, feminists.

Aug. 2nd, 2006

01:25 pm

No one in New York City has an air conditioner. And they don't even realise how weird that is, despite the fact that the weather here is about ten thousand times worse than it is in Ohio. (Although to be fair, the heat in Ohio affects us more because we all weigh 9,000 pounds.)

When I call New Yorkers on it, they say, "I guess when you grow up without one, you just consider it an unnecessary luxury." And that's probably why everyone in New York City smells like body odor.

Which, by the way, is the title of my second book.

Jul. 30th, 2006

05:38 pm

Today was the day that had to happen to make me feel like I made the right decision about staying. I woke up at 10:30 and took a shower in a bathtub that I like a hundred times more than the one I just left in Chelsea, mostly because it looks like Meredith actually cleans hers. It also doesn't hurt that there's a window in the far wall of the shower, and I'm sort of an exhibitionist.

I e-mailed my friend Chax last night and asked if he could help me locate a new loofah in my new neighbourhood, since I threw mine out yesterday when I moved out of my apartment. In typical male fashion, he barely knows what a loofah is, so I decided just to go back to Chelsea and its strip of corporate familiarity.

When I left Meredith's apartment, I stopped at a little convenience store to buy some juice for my subway ride, and the cashier greeted me like he actually meant it. He put my bottle in a little brown bag, which no one has ever done in Manhattan. Then, when I took the juice out of the bag just outside the store, I saw that he'd stuck a straw and napkin inside for me. Cute!

When I finished my loofah-purchasing extravaganza at Bed, Bath & Beyond, I headed up to the bank to get more cash for my now-classic lesbian haircut, and on the stairs of a church-turned-nightclub, I spotted a girl who looked just like my little sister before my little sister started tanning and working out every day. When I got closer, I saw that she had her luggage beside her with a marker board on top that said, "Please help me get back to Columbus, Ohio," and had her driver's license taped next to it. I stopped and said, "Hey! I'm from Columbus, Ohio." I asked her how she got here, and she said that she came out to see her mom but that her mom doesn't want to see her and none of the women's shelters provides traveler's aid. As we talked, I became more and more aware of how stereotypically Ohio she was, from her fat blonde ponytail to her round face to her cutoff denim shorts to her gravelly white trash voice. I gave her all the cash I had and wished her good luck in getting home. Mostly because I don't want her here Ohioing up my city.


I also noticed that before I walked up to her, no one was paying her any attention. But as soon as I stopped to talk, three people gave her cash. So my plan, if I ever become homeless, is to pay really adorable girls with lesbian haircuts to hang around and attract people to me. Which is completely reasonable.

I walked across 23rd Street toward my old apartment and saw a blind guy headed straight for one of those giant blue post office boxes. He had his cane too far too his right for it to let him know that the box was in front of him, and I thought, Say something! Tell him to be careful! But my mouth is too far from my brain, and he smacked into it before I could say anything. The look of shock and sadness on his face broke my heart, and I wanted to say to him, "I'm sorry! I tried!" As he passed me, he muttered, "That's what I get for not paying attention."

After my haircut, I packed my peanut butter, bread pan, and pepper-plant-that's-too-young-to-have-any-peppers-growing-on-it in one of our wastebaskets and left my old apartment for the last time. On my way to the subway, I passed a little folding table with glasses and a pitcher on top. Two little blonde kids asked me in unison, "Would you like some lemonade?" It made me want to have, like, ten thousand babies.

And finally, as I stepped onto the subway platform, I passed a man with a French accent who asked, "Cannabis?" It took me a second to realise that he was talking about my trashcan plant, so I turned around and said, "Close. Ornamental peppers." He was disappointed but sweet, and I thought about how cool I'd be if I hauled my potted weed around with me everywhere I went.

Sigh of contentedness.

Jul. 29th, 2006

11:10 pm

The Boyfriend dropped me off at our friend Meredith's apartment this afternoon after a morning of cleaning and packing and sweating and stuffing an entire apartment's worth of accumulation into a rented gold minivan. He just wanted me to get rid of my plants, but I explained that growing things is like being in a relationship: you put in a little work, and it seems foolish not to fight for it.

Speaking of which, Todd sort of broke up with me last night, but he told me not to create my OkCupid profile or make out with any of my back-ups or anything until we have a chance to talk about it. So what I'm saying is–don't go breaking up with your girlfriends for me just yet.

I cried when we pulled away from our apartment and cried again when he said goodbye to me at Meredith's before driving back to Ohio to live in complete bliss without me while hanging out in all of the places we used to and eating all of our favourite foods.

I went on a two-hour walk around Prospect Heights, my neighbourhood for the next thirteen days, and was weirded out that I'm no longer surrounded only by gay white men. I had an hour-long phone conversation about boys with trrrracey on a bench in Prospect Park. I went to an Associated Supermarket with a sign that said something like SSO I T D, and the cashier was very proud of himself for looking at the name on my credit card and calling me Kathleen.

I went back to Meredith's apartment and made macaroni and cheese and watched, like, five hours of "The Hills". I'm really not good at being alone.

But I'm pretty pumped about the fact that I cooked something for the first time in a year.

Jul. 28th, 2006

06:27 pm

I finally gave up on my Maybe-Future-Roommate™ on Tuesday and got myself a sublet. Even before I saw it, I knew that I'd love it, because: a) it's in Park Slope, which is expensive and hip and filled with trees, b) it's with a writing major, and c) the writing major has a dog.

I packed my life up this morning and paid some smelly guys to move it all to Brooklyn, where I'll be living for at least the next two months until my Maybe-Future-Roommate™ and I find a place. The girl whose lease I'm taking over doesn't move out until the 11th, so my friend Meredith has graciously allowed me to have nightly sleepovers with her until then.

Everything works out in the end, right?

I'm still going to sob like an idiot, though, when The Boyfriend drives off to Ohio in his rented gold minivan tomorrow morning.

Jul. 24th, 2006

11:54 am

I have exactly five days until I have to be out of my apartment, and I still don't have a place to live. I'm the type of person who's always looking for signs–not to tell me what to do but to tell me that I'm making the right decision. I don't actually believe in signs or fate or any of that jazz, but I always want those little affirmations to assure myself that everything will work out. And it always does.

But for the first time, the signs aren't giving me the answers I want. My Maybe-Future-Roommate™ and I have contacted probably 20 brokers in the last few weeks and viewed as many apartments with absolutely no luck. We found THE place on Friday night in THE area we want to live in. It was in an old building that was being renovated, so it was a mix of brand new appliances and hardwood floors and hundred-year-old sliding doors. It had a backyard and was on the first floor. It had two bedrooms with a bathroom in each room, which is, like, unthinkable here. And to top it off, it had a wall made of those clear blocks that look like ice cubes–which I always imagined for myself when I moved to New York–and a bay window in the front–which I promised my roommate we'd have when we started talking about living together. It was out of our price range, but as soon as we saw it, we just smiled at each other and told the broker we'd take it. But in the middle of our signing the papers, the owner called our broker to tell her that he'd taken a deposit on the place himself just two hours earlier.

The very next day at an open house, we saw an apartment that was the entire floor of a building. Again, it was in the perfect spot in Brooklyn, and my bedroom there would have been bigger than my entire apartment is now. It had a backyard and roof access and those same sliding wooden doors leftover from a time when apartments were much less practical and much more beautiful. We asked the owner a bunch of obligatory questions, but it was clear to us that we were going to take it. At the end of the open house, he handed us his business card and said, "Just give me a call if you decide anything," and then began walking down the hall to the other group that was viewing it with us. I looked at my Maybe-Future-Roommate™ and he looked at me, and I began to follow the owner to say, "I think we're ready to sign right now." But as soon as he handed his card to the other group and said, "Just give me a call if you decide anything," they said, "I think we're ready to sign right now." And they did. And I think I cried a little.

Yesterday morning, we were on our way to meet with a broker about our dream apartment. It was different from THE Place in THE Area We Want to Live In™, because it was actually feasible for us to live in that one, while the Dream Apartment™ was this 1400-square-foot loft in a converted feather factory by the water for $2800 per month. It was just a big open room–no walls separating bedrooms. Which makes it pretty hard for people to share. But my Maybe-Future-Roommate™ was convinced that it was our apartment, that we could put up curtains or build our own walls, so after weeks of watching its listing, I finally made an appointment to see it. But ten blocks from the broker's office, she called to tell me that someone put in an offer for it the day before and that she wasn't allowed to show it to me.

It just feels like everything's working against us, you know?

Luckily, there are three things that are making my ignoring the signs possible. The first is that weeks ago, my friend Dominique offered to let me stay with her if I can't find a place for August. She lives in a studio in Jersey City, so it wouldn't be an ideal situation by any means, but her generosity kills me dead. The second is that my friend Meredith is going out of town next week and offered to let me room-sit for her under the pretense that she needs someone to check her mail. And the third is that my friend Mark offered to let me stow some of my furniture in his apartment in Park Slope since Dominique and Meredith won't have room for it.

So if I don't find a place in the next five days, at least I won't have to live on the streets amongst the rubble of my former life. This still sucks, though.

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