This week: I break a personal record at the bar, strategize ways to make things on the internet work and meet The Game.
So I’ve been going back and forth all morning with Waffle about things to do when I get out of work. See, I work weekends while Waffle gets every other weekend off. I am forced to ask this question: Where was I when these kinds of schedules were being handed out?
With my luck I was probably working.
I any case I also have plans with someone else because, let’s face it, I have that kind of luck where things go exactly the way I think they will.
In short: Waffle winds up canceling on me but I wind up connecting with someone else to wind up at a bar.
Not to sound like an animal but I wind up at the same bar where last week, I had the the most awkward experience with the most braindead bartender because I believe in the place and I tend to have a good time with decent people. So naturally after a few hours:
I get home before midnight, gurgling and trying to not text anyone out of context. I think I watched the new episode of Doctor Who but to be honest, I’m not a fan of perpetually pissed off throbbing forehead vein having Peter Capaldi.
I would’ve been better if Clara was actually a Time Lord or even a Doctor or at least Michelle Gomez’ Master was given more scenery to chew. I’ve lost faith in Moffat as a showrunner and I just keep thinking “Why couldn’t they just lock in Natalia Tena for this role? Why’d it have to be a crusty ass white male? Why’d we forget about Danny Pink? When is Clara going to declare her love for the girl she was hanging with before The Doctor? Why am I sober?” You know, real questions.
Anyways. I knock out.
Round two of text talk with Waffle…which starts at 7:30 in the morning.
Again, like a loser, I answer and feel the stirrings of hope in the shitty little thing I call a heart and indulge in the conversation because for some reason, liquor fueled sleep is always the best sleep I have.
The thing that sucks about that is when you’re sluggish from a good night out, you feel it all moving around your body. I actually get winded moving around to get up and I immediately start saying, “I’m quitting for real. It’s done.” I also push myself more to work out and make sure my fat ass can outrun a chainsaw wielding maniac but I’m always so tired.
Backtrack: It’s not the booze’s fault, it’s my fault that I can’t just time manage things.
I get to work super early and prepare for what I know will happen: Everything is going to fall to the last second because I have plans (which I never have) and of course the universe likes to keep testing me.
We have slightly serious debate about whether what a woman wears directly impacts her odds of being raped and I have to remember that I’m still a 31 year old world weary female and these are two guys who’ve never had to double check anywhere they’ve been for anything in their lives. Ah, to be part of the patriarchy.
It doesn’t bother me so much as make me sad that the American culture, the patriarchal nature of living in the world, limits and taints the way men view women to the point where they’re simply just things to look at or touch when they want to. We tell girls not to expose their shoulders in the summer because hormonal stupid boys won’t be able to not focus on the lessons; we tell them they’re valuable based on what they wear and that a boy’s education is way more valuable than a woman’s right to comfort. It’s a little infuriating. I’m putting away the soap box.
On the low I’ve been planning to meet Waffle for a movie day and wind up, because of course the universe works like this, having to sprint from work to the theater. Along the way I ask myself why the hell am I even bothering considering the way things have been between us lately; me with my still inexplicable optimism Waffle being Waffle, stressed and angry. I race to the theater in record time and see The Scorch Trials.
The movie is pretty good (didn’t even read the books and I’m a jerk about that kind of thing) and I do my best to stay out of Waffle’s wrath because basically the road to the movies was paved in my being cursed out, called an asshole and being made to feel like shit because of fucking Mercury in retrograde.
Wheels up into work where I build a portion of a set, put a mic on The Game and try my damnedest to not let the anxiety get to me while planning a few things that need to be done for what sounds like the most taxing day ever on Wednesday.
I shovel less than delicious italian food into my face after a super breakneck speed day and wind up with an awkward case of angry tummy.
When I get home, I start watching wrestling because I’m an adult and Waffle texts me with some of the most heartbreakingly why would you even talk about that messages and I wind up staring at the ceiling trying to understand how long one can stay numb. Basically, do we not go to a concert because of feelings? I could care less but it’s the fact that I spent the money, I want to go and you need a break.
I’ll fucking sell them if anything.
Perhaps kindness needs to be beaten out of me.
The concert in question: Tove Lo
I think I have a breakfast fueled by peanut butter and bagels.
I buy candy for everyone because I actually live in a van and want everyone to be my friend. Trying to fill it up with puppies and kittens is a serious chore…buuuuut.
It’s a lot.
I plan for tomorrow because its’ going to be one of those days where everyone wants to give up and murder everyone else like it’s the only way to survive. I’ve noticed that I’m making inroads but the confidence is still 100000000000% in the trash. Means nothing.
I leave late.
First shoot: This dude from Shark Tank who basically makes me feel like I should reevaluate how I pitch EVERYTHING. Which is good because he’s super nice and Canadian and that’s basically a weakness.
I get a text invite to a New York Liberty game and full discloser, I haven’t been going or had any interest in attending. SO. I wind up saying yes.
Second Shoot: Jaleel White. Urkle. I mean. If we’re talking bout 90s nostalgia being over the top…it’s this shoot. He’s nice. doesn’t want to talk about Urkle at all and honestly I’m glad I didn’t wear my retro shirt (I have no retro shirt with his face on it, I’m not a savage) honestly? he’s awesome and I’m glad he’s a genuine good dude. He’s also directed HELLA tv shows so that means he’s basically working and making things happen.
Third shoot: I have to do something else. that’s at 6. I shoot it and hope for the stars.
the game is at 7. I leave at 7:00
I arrive to MSG at 7:05.
I have long legs and determination.
I watch the first two quarters and get into my seat with my dudes with two minutes left in the second. Halftime is weird because its like the brand is struggling to find it’s niche and also we’re lacking direction as a whole. I basically stare off and wonder what could’ve been…and low key struggle to not text Waffle who’s still MIA from me.
After the stunning win, we get pizza and I race uptown to my brother’s house where a gallon of honey jack whisky is waiting for me.
I make a few snaps that I don’t send because I’m not that ripped and at 2am I send one text to waffle, figuring she’s at work and will appreciate it.
I get no answer.
I think tap out at 2:15 after tipping over in a seat from a 18 hour day. I don’t know. I might’ve done a full 24 hour day and not even know it.
Sleeping into the double digits is a strange luxury. I wake up at 10:30 and giggle at my godmother interacting with the TV and yelling about the pope. Honestly. It’s hilarious.
I spend the day chilling with my brother, watching the most random fucking anime ever and then some south park episodes that make us marvel at how good these guys are.
I get a text from whatshername and basically explain Wonder Woman Wednesday which results in a dinner invite I just can’t take.
Again. HOW DO I SAY GO AWAY?
My brother laughs at it all and we just sit in his room until my ass goes numb in the folding chair I’ve been using the whole time.
I feel terrible because again, I feel like an absentee parent. He’s a good man (yikes!) and I don’t know how to fix that. I have so many things to fix and I’ve only one shabby ass toolkit. I don’t know how to do it all, if I should and what’s priority. Honestly, I feel wasted all over again.
I leave at 6:30 and wind up tackling some home projects, finishing my imported Irish whisky (Tullamore Dew) in my Loot Crate sent mug and prepare for my ‘cousin’ who’s landed a ‘dream job’ to come over and muck up my terrible black hole of an apartment.
I watch Tove Lo live videos just so i don’t feel like I’m wasting my money and time in trying to get Waffle to reconsider the whole, ‘this is going to be awkward because of stupid fucking reasons’ I want to sell the tickets but low key I want to see this show…I’ve been on for awhile I should go…I bought them though because Waffle likes Tove Lo and I’m a sucking up and sad.
It’s 5 am and I’m a car going to Pennsylvania.
By 11:30 I’m a WalMart buying more toys, two bluray movies, a pocket coloring book and another suck up toy for Waffle.
By 2 we’re back in the car on the road and I’m still working on work emails.
By 4 we’re in a cracker barrel shoveling food down our throats.
When we get home it’s a little past 7, it’s dark and I’m coloring.
No word from Waffle but tomorrow, I’ll be in SoleXChange hopefully making another internet banger.
This week, I like trains, Made In America is a dustbowl dance, drones are both awesome and terrifying, I have no idea what I’m doing and I have a dream where basically everything I want happens, I just need the universe to deliver.
so basically I’m struggling with extreme anxiety which causes me to take a sleeping pill the night before (I got home at 9pm, ate nothing, took a shower, took a pill in bed at 10p. ON A FUCKING FRIDAY) and wake up in the early morning like a groggy drunk four times before the actual alarm goes off.
We’re off to a rolling start.
I head to the office early to pick up gear and race to Penn Station in the hopes of catching a 10 am Acela train to Philadelphia. I have a plan and everything seems to be in order but we all know that those things don’t actually mean a gotdamned thing.
We wind up getting on a train a full hour afterwards that pulls us directly to Philly where we embark on what I hope will be the least anxiety inducing day of my young career.
I get the passes from the wicked hotel, we head to the festival grounds and proceed to sweat.
The truncated version of this story goes like this:
- I almost punched someone out during Modest Mouse.
- Nick Jonas struggles WAY too hard to put soul into his voice. You’re on a Justin Timberlake track, just let it happen organically babe.
- Glitch Mob plays a lot of moombaton
- Drunk girls are the worst creatures on the planet, second only to drunk frat bros.
- Cops on bikes are absolutely adorable.
- Puke is gross, chunky puke grosser, beer puke is basically the reason why beer sucks.
- Halsey is the day AFTER we leave; I won’t get to stare at her.
- Deathcab for Cutie is immaculate live
- meek mill got away with doing karaoke hits from other rappers, yelling and bringing out Nicki Minaj yet I’m still perplexed how his fans think he WON against Drake. He basically admitted he’s powerless.
- Beyonce basically sounds like top 40 radio cranked to fifteen in hell, complete with overwrought wailing, unnecessary remixes to her own basic songs about female empowerment, a lot of circle ass movements and bamboozled everyone by performing a third of Destiny’s Child’s three albums (because she owns the rights to everything because of course she does)
- Bar wings on an Amtrak are glorious but a whisky chaser and I’m basically living a golden life.
Flying by the seat of my pants, spend an hour and change on the phone with my brother trying to remind myself that my depression shouldn’t keep sneaking up the way it does. He reminds me that every time I start to feel shitty its when I’ve had a major project that seems like it was a nightmare to even pull off. I tell him the two can’t be connected that’s just crazy.
OR maybe it’s not. It’s in my head.
I’m lucky to be working.
I get on the train and basically listen to Slipknot.
I struggle to avoid answering emails again but I do it and settle a few things.
I send a charming flirty text to Waffle asking about Shake Shack and a play day.
I struggle to get out of bed. But I do that. I struggle to take a shower. I do that too. I wanted to get dressed and buy some half priced comics. I don’t do that. I read Libba Bray’s magnificent post about her struggles with depression. feel it on a deeper level and wind up finishing a project because I was holding onto it in the hopes that my genius (which is suffering) would shine through. I just press publish and wait for the responses at this point. I want it to be good but realize that I’ve been working on this for quite some time and they’re just for fun, they’re not my real works or passion but it’s keeping me busy and distracted.
I spend another hour and change on the phone with my brother. He knows I’m feeling lousy and doesn’t ask about my going over there. I owe him a big weekend.
I wake up highly motivated but by highly motivated I mean I wind up getting out of bed at a decent hour and attempting to dress. I do get dressed only to wind up getting food with mom. I wind up going upstairs and staying there.
I wind up watching Serena/Venus knowing exactly how it’s going to end even though I want an insane upset but it doesn’t happen.
I start my day with another Waffle call and find that these things are starting to be a habit…which I like….and then that gross feeling of hope starts blossoming in my chest and try as I might, I can’t shake it at all. I don’t want to but It feels like that scene in Carmilla where Laura tells Carmilla not to kiss her or be around her because it’s y’know, feelings and stuff.
I’m waiting on that payback Universe.
I do a terrific job of getting out of bed and out of my house to go to work and up comic books and action figures.
I talk myself out of buying a pile and get only the essentials because I have to be a decent person for fucks sake and also NYCC is coming.
Things happen. Honestly? Can’t remember.
mostly because an accidental ‘what up bro’ text turns into ‘bro, come to this event tonight’ which leads to 4am burgers at a diner.
I make an ass of myself with LA Reid (serverely distracted by work emails and texts so I COMPLETELY miss his speaking to me like a regular person. We’re talking about my Wen Kroy Danger cap (thanks Mighty Healthy) and I joke about not quizzing me about being a serious Rangers fan. I’m a certifiable moron.
So I go inside, get some Ketel One and Red Bull because I’m actually a college sophomore and those things excite me and listen to what is possibly going to be my favorite album ever once it’s released.
BIG GRAMS IS THE TRUTH
The quick jaunt out into the world turns into an adventure when we pile into an Uber and wind up at Webster Hall where, despite my VIP tags, I’m denied VIP Access but still wind up yelling most of the words to Cam’ron’s music as it blasts from the main stage because…he was there…
I have more Hypontiq in my body that I’ve ever had before…a full decade after I was old enough to buy it.
We walk out, sweaty and confused with ringing ears and end up eating burgers at a diner that I’ve come to love. I burn the shit out of my mouth, shovel all the food into my face hole and get home at 5am.
I have to run a shoot for adidas.
It goes well and the funny thing is that I know the guy who’s running security because one of my past lives entailed my having to be a security/service person. My natural instinct is to make friends and pass cards with the staff; because, as previously mentioned those people will always be working and you want to have fun and they know you’re fun, they’ll share the fun. I can’t drink and work, its just not something that’s good to do.
I learned that I’m capable of much and many things this week but even superheroes have their limits.
it’s also bizarre to be at an event in SoHo where I can see the Lights…The weather was the same today as it was fourteen years ago. It’s strange to think that I was pocket sized, full of hope and never knew what was to come. It’s just a strange day and weekend because it doesn’t feel like we should be hobnobbing when people were killed nearly steps away from you and the fashion show. I know it’s been years and people learn to heal from it but it’s still a bit strange for me.
This week, we return the scene of the crime, climb the (sorta) highest rooftop, get grenades lobbed into our chest cavities and buy hats
Feels like a haze. Perhaps it’s due mainly to the fact that I’m running on irregular sleep, working long hours and the weather just can’t decide between hoodie and heatwave but it feels like everything is on fire.
Between the standard protocol for the day, there’s a shoot that I’m somehow pulled into coordinating on an equipment level and maybe it’s because I’m still trying to understand how the word, ‘No’ works, I wind up doing that plus freaking out about a million other things that after the fact aren’t even important, I just need to sit and be reminded that I’m not a surgeon, I’m not saving the world and no, no one gives a good goddamn about your feelings.
I should be on Grey’s Anatomy or something though…
A contact pulls through and I wind up going BACK to the event and this time, enjoying the space. I take a few pictures, have two glasses of white and feel like a snob.
Then she happened.
When you’re at a thing that you initially went with with other people (who left) and you’re there trying to figure out if it’s worth staying, you tend to do two things; stare off into space, or stare at your phone. I don’t have anyone really to talk to so I stare at the third option, my camera.
While there a sprite of a thing flits up to me and says, “You’ve got great energy.”
I am actauually standing in a corner with a bottle of water and my camera fidgeting and trying to not run home for more work to finish and sleep to catch up on. These are things I need kid, not your energy.
The strange thing about girls like these is that I keep attracting them. In a past life I had attracted Charlie and for a moment it made some kind of sense but I didn’t really see it as anything besides two people who genuinely liked each other but Charlie wanted more than I could give. Interestingly enough, it would be the things that happened with Charlie that would bring me to Waffle.
These girls convince you with their strange charms to do rails of cocaine and take selfies with cops.
(neither of these things happened)
They’re the kind of lightening in a bottle that all the terrible indie rom coms have fetishized to the point that when you see them, you want to run in the opposite direction.
Anyway, Dynamite convinces me to walk out with her and a friend where I wind up escorting them over to the East Village for dinner. I drag my sorry carcass the hell home…and deal with lousy trains because why not?
My increasing panic allows me to multitask but I’ve also hit a personal breaking point.
I get home and sleep for twenty minutes, eat dinner then spend the next two hours in various sprawls on the couch until I drag my ass into bed to watch a lackluster episode of Fear The Walking Dead while simultaneously resembling the newly dead.
I vex on the title and ask Waffle is maybe it should’ve been named “Rise of The Walking Dead” or if that was too literal.
I sprint into Brooklyn, still wind up getting there late but am granted ten minutes to plot something on my left arm that I hope will bring me confidence I so desperately need. I’m continuing to build on armor that keeps me from the world and gives me something pretty to look at.
In the midst of all that, I oversee an edit on the project from Friday that looks pretty damned cool.
I get back into the city proper, wind up aimlessly wandering 14th Street and pick up Ant-man, a new book and wander into a bar.
BECAUSE IM TRASH.
I’m then given the worst batch of whiskey gingers I’ve had…and of course it’s from the pretty but stupid bartender. It’s her second day in and no one told her the dump the liquor skip the soda rule. She looks like Naya Rivera’s impression of Kim Kardashian.
Of course the male clientele love it…I’m a mean bitch who just can’t tolerate pretty girls without a lick of sense.
A Jameson rep is MERCIFULLY at the bar today, shilling the nectar of the gods.
She gives the bar a free shot.
I close the tab.
Then remember the place has great burgers.
She follows me with those big dumb glassy eyes.
She tries to palm off a fucking GIN AND GINGER on me and I tell her, “WHISKY ginger and don’t charge me for that.”
I get a burger, pay only for the burger and wind up getting four more less than shitty whiskeys but have no buzz, an upset stomach and have been mansplained about digital.
I’m having a right proper Monday.
Waffle doesn’t text me again after starting my day with a ‘Do you think Old Navy is having a sale?’ text to which I replied, “More than likely, wanna meet and find out?”
Waffle: “I just got home, Im’ going to sleep.”
Then radio silence. You’d think I’d be used to it but it’s just one of those things where…here, I’ll let this clip describe it.
Every text message is the equivalent of “opening my heart with a knife and continuing to remind me that this could be us but I’m playing.”
I meet a lot of people they do nothing for me and my increasing distance with humanity is essentially alienating me from the rest of the world; I’m fine with that. I am. To a degree because as I get colder, I wonder if Waffle will even notice. there’s a gulf between us, life making it worse and ever the painful optimist, I keep building a bridge out of whatever I can find and securing it with whatever I can so that Waffle knows to cross it, meet me in the middle and let’s go through this together.
I wind up walking home after my less than stellar bar day, determined to never do it again because my jeans are fitting me awkwardly and the last thing I need is to be miserable AND overweight because they go hand in hand in the misery train.
I get an early morning text message and immediately backflip out of bed…
then fall back to sleep.
Waffle needs to go clothes shopping and of course, exhausted and grumpy as I am, I get up, get dressed and I’m out the door.
We text back and forth and maybe it’s the residual feelings from yesterday but I feel that stirring happen and I wind up flirting, poorly, but it happens. I had over a sticker that made me think of everything I believe because to be honest, I just need that magic to work and for Waffle to understand it works best when it’s believed in together. We get on the bus and talk the usual bullshit while I work from my phone. Try as I might, I just can’t not be working. Good bad, who knows. We wind up at the mall where I fallow Waffle around like the lovesick puppy I am. At Old Navy I stare and then try not to. At Hot Topic (shut up) I stare and flirt and I watch the way those cheeks pink with each bad pick up line. It’s so bad the girl behind the counter is giggling. We get brunch (legit, lunch was breakfast, I understand the hype behind brunch now) I get Dairy Queen and Waffle get’s Nathan’s. I stare again, and do my best to not look so thirsty but it’s one of those fuck it things at this point.
The day is nice until Waffle awkwardly, on a bus full of people, mentions that the odds of our getting back together after two years are not in my favor.
That sound you hear?
That’s another large chunk of my heart being shattered under them sneakers.
I hold it in and ramble things that I believe to be true and get the, “What do you want me to say?” answer over and over again.
I ramble and make a few coherent words and apologize for everything again. I wind up crying. I suck it up. “I just want you to see me the way you saw me the first time. I feel like you’re denying it, I feel like you’re doing your best to not feel that because it wasn’t the best towards the end. When I left the job (we were in mutual positions) the thing that upset me most was not having an excuse to see you every other day at work, not even that I’d been dropped from the roster. Isn’t that sad? The fact that not seeing you was more upsetting than not knowing how I was going to pay bills or take care of myself?”
I saw Waffle wiping away tears out of the corner of my eye and honestly, I couldn’t help the small twinge of joy that gave me.
I mention that we have mutual tattoos as well and that’s just a strange coincidence right? The quote that means a lot to me:
And another that mirrors mine; one that I got years back to impress Waffle in the first place. That was five years ago. I went alone and I got it done and showed it off. The look in those eyes.
I think I’ve romanticized something that’s slowly driving me insane.
I see the signs, I see the patterns, I frequently ask the universe and work and work and work and I just keep seeing the signs everywhere and I just can’t ignore them. I can’t.
Am I wrong?
I haven’t cried about it in awhile, stress and anxiety working their wonders to keep me from melting down into a pile of tears and sadness but I wind up falling to pieces as soon as I get home anyway. I also knock out a few pitches and ideas while trying to tell myself that these two days were supposed to be chill and relaxing, not bizarre and upsetting.
There’s another wonderful life lesson to learn: happy is just not something that I can actually be, neither is content or satisfied. I’m in perpetual state of ‘shit happens, deal with it, live fight die repeat.’
Instead of being a normal person and watching Narcos like all the cool kids I wind up watching the Strange Empire and having a deep heart eye emoji for Cara Gee.
Hours later I text a rambling message to Waffle that repeats everything I’ve been saying for the last two cringeworthy years only to basically get nothing in response even though it was something I was prepared for, it’s still not something that I wanted to get, y’know?
Meanwhile, whatsername from three weeks back keeps trying to talk to me and honestly, I don’t know how many ways I’ve said to go away without sounding like a prick.
The irony is, I was flattered for two minutes until whatername gave me Charlie vibes. I ran like someone lit my ass on fire and I’m still running…in the direction of the wall that Waffle put up.
There is nowhere else I want to be and nowhere else to go and Waffle knows it.
I’m trying, I am but out of everything in this world that could possibly mean more to me it’s that.
It’s true. You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.
In the middle of all of this, the video from Friday makes it onto the internet:
PS. My neighbor’s choice in music is shitty.
Work starts off with an insane rush of things to get done. I have a shoot in Brooklyn that I haven’t had time to prepare for outside of the precursor questions and research that I’ve done on my days off. It feels good to be out in the field though, especially considering the fact that I don’t have a chance to obsess over the fact that I know damn well Waffle won’t be texting or calling me early in the morning for awhile.
A care package I’ve been meaning to deliver to my brother arrives courtesy of my mom and he texts me with OMG. So I guess it was a hit. I feel like an absentee parent when it comes to my brother. My days are pretty loaded and I don’t know how to unplug myself and just be in the moments anymore. I may also be suffering from that success thing and I don’t want it to stop because that’s what’s afforded me the ability to even indulge in the stupid things that we enjoy.
We hit Williamsburg for this shoot and we film in an amazing space and I hope to god that it’s a hit because it’s been such a bumble of a thing to work on. Everything from timing, to sound to picture has been a bit of a struggle but I have this weird faith it’ll all come together…mostly because there are worse things that can fall apart.
I climb onto the roof and sprain my thumb (self diagnosis, we’ll see what it looks like tomorrow) and film what I can in the heat and on a rooftop, making it up as I go along while my thumb is throbbing. I may be so tired, dazed and out of my own head that it doesn’t phase me, a person who’s uncomfortable with heights, am standing on a rooftop shooting skyline and painters. I think i’m just accepting that things have to be done and if I’m doing them, I’m gonna fucking do them.
I get back to the office with enough time to shovel food in my face (my lunch is now dinner) and finish out the day. I discover some fun features on Snapchat that I won’t use because you don’t need to be subjected to my face so, there, you’re spared. HOWEVER, my Snapchats tend to be hilarious as hell so, you should follow me on that. (invisiblecircus)
I get on the phone and talk to my brother for a half hour where we giggle about plans for Comic Con as I make my way over to Midtown Comics because I have a serious problem. I wind up picking up four comics and a Cobra New Era cap.
I’ve basically taken to wearing caps because my hair is in a weird transitional phase, I’m too lazy to even style whatever it is living on my head and my self esteem is trash so…you know…dress it up.
I get home watch some of the debates and wonder how the hell these people even function in the world.
Fingers crossed I get to pull off two projects for work.
I pull together a few things that work and by work I mean they don’t blow up in my face.
I spend some time in St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Walk to the train and get home in no time.
Rewatching Grey’s Anatomy gets me mad though…Calzona…still broken up.
I get an early start and manage to get things done. I interview an intern, which is odd because what the hell do I know?
I offer to pick up beers for everyone and see the mood change. Liquor, the great uniter.
It’s funny because I always manage to make the things that seem improbably possible and while it’s a great trait to have, I don’t want to be the one who comes in and manages to make things happen with almost no planning.
Then again, like i said, my life is a strange trip.
It’s a stunning, emotional look back on the pitch.
This week, I get social meet Scottish tourists, accidentally start saying “aye” in agreement with everything and discover the true meaning of Summer.
I try my very best to not be a raging drink machine but sometimes a girl just has to cut loose and go for the gold. Following a pretty chill work day I wind up at this Irish pub called The Playwright’s Tavern where I wound up having a few drinks and watching my first ever horse race. It was actually pretty entertaining. I wound up talking to two Scottish tourists who happily chatted with me about their experience in New York.
They’re basically horrified that there’s nowhere to gamble and that the character of New York is basically boiled down to their tourist experiences and hashtags. We agree that life is strange when you’ve based it on movies and even more so when those movies are from a decade or more back from where you’re starting.
I wind up at a friends house where I avoid pitfalls and get home with enough energy to prep for the next day.
Not before I help a friend roll through some serious ass Molly.
I’m not a serious druggie.
I’m not a druggie at all.
I basically wait until I’m sobbing and can’t understand English before taking Tylenol.
I watch a friend rolling through Molly and immediately go into ‘mom mode’. Drink water. sit down, deep breathes, calm down, listen to music, watch this.
I feel like a savage as I sneak out of the apartment and head home.
I laugh because he should’ve known better.
I shrug because I wanted to roll that shit.
I realize I make the smarter decision because money isn’t growing on trees for morons like me so when I pass out at home because I’ve been up for WAY too long, it’s because I have to earn more money.
Until the VMAS. I always watch them despite their obviously garbage inclinations in the last few years. This year’s VMA’s feel like a complete and total trollfest with the added bonus of advertisers thinking they’re clever and jumping onto the entire thing like vultures picking the corpse of a once great behemoth.
I skip watching Fear The Walking Dead because I know what it’s going to be about: white people avoiding the problem while all the POCs suffer the wrath of awareness just so I can keep up with the shitshow that is the 2015 VMAs. Miley Cyrus is one of those presumably self aware mistresses of disaster where she knows no matter what she does, it will end in headlines and absolutes; she’s either a meme or a complete and total mess.
I watch as Nicki Minaj (who I’m still trying to find a redeeming quality in) flamed her on stage for her pre=VMA interviews and I wonder if she and Nicki sat in the back and contemplated their eventual ‘feud’ the same way Nicki and Taylor Swfit calculated their. The artifice of it all is so palpable that I regret not watching Fear The Walking Dead because it would at least boost my Twitter followers because I’m so fucking clever and let’s face it MTV is about as relevant as dodo bird.
I stroll in and immediately disappear to work on a project that landed in my lap but the level of impact is far deeper than I thought it would be. Gentrification, community building, culture shifts and all that jimmy jazz seem to keep landing in my plate because honestly, I’m fed the fuck up.
If I may go on a tangent:
If you are well versed, spoken, fuck read a few books between classes, you’re classified as white. Illogically so because reading is apparently for white people and the the act of continuing truly the work of the devil. I was given a project to research and (despite my best efforts I’ve been dividing all my brain capacity to every permutation of research available) took it on thinking it was a pretty straight forward piece; it’s not. It is deeper than any research, deeper than any cultural study, it essentially is a piece about how people with money can change anything they like. It’s been an eye opening experience and with everything else going on I haven’t been able to dive deeper into the fray as I’d like to. I have this mentality of some crazed crusader; I want to dismantle a system that allows people who have rest two extra books than the next person to rule the world. I want to take things apart and examine them but lately I haven’t been able to because I don’t have the brain capacity or bandwidth to do it. In any case, this project has made me realize that the world is just a hot damned mess and all we’re doing is stewing in it and there’s no way to get out of the pool unless to topple the pot.
I flock my ass towards post Chinatown in NYC to conduct an interview with a woman who’s basically my type on every level complete with FUCK EVERYONE mentality. She winds up being my favorite person in process and as I prepare for the next level of conversation I realize that the project is bigger than I expected. The project is becoming a love note to a city that seemingly doesn’t exist; the drug dealers are rappers, the gentrifiers are their managers and the families in the neighborhoods are the ones who buy the product. The city I knew, loved and feared doesn’t really exist anymore; not in the way that I thought it did. I can comfortably stoned get on a train home from Queens, arrived to my destination unbothered and dap all the cops on my way to my building. Essentially NY has become a bizarre utopia and I only realize this on my way home from work on a tuesday following this deep conversation and a meal from Wendy’s.
The New York I obsessed over as a tween (hackers…..Kids….) wasn’t real anymore.
As a social anxiety sufferer it was probably for the best but as a writer, let’s just say my movie based on a book would be coming out this year with A$AP ROCKY and Cara Delavigne in starring roles.
I basically dodge the text messages coming from an admirer I met during Saturday night’s shitshow because my heart and soul belongs to Waffle.
I mean, it’s flattering but it’s also super irritating because who wants to sit there and answer awkward DMs.
I’m not sexy. You think l’m sexy because you’ve never had someone like me. So. Um. Go somewhere else for that.
I’m waiting on my beloved and I’ve basically told the universe that so…
And if you’re keeping score, I told the would be Romeo the same thing.
Still SUUUUUUPER persistent.
I stay home but I don’t lay low because answering emails and texts and making phone calls are all the flaws a workaholic has.
why would my person from Saturday keep texting me dammit!?
and I basically find out that I will be traveling.
I have to say, for a person who didn’t go anywhere, I’m able to go…places.
they may not be glamorous and I’m getting sunburned and dealing with strange fucking people but I’m going somewhere and that’s amazing so I’m going to go with it because last year I was LITERALLY standing in one spot and watching people making their dreams come true.
I’m trying to teach myself that it’s okay to have dreams again, that it’s okay to flex some power, that I’m allowed to be someone other people should contact when things need to get done.
I still don’t get it because (to be totally honest)
I don’t know what power I can wield.
It’s like being told you have Thor’s hammer but you can trust anyone and you can’t whip it out.
It’s almost peenussss level respect.
that I can’t have.
I just want to dap a motherfucker with my cawk.
when compared to my life before now.
It’s not bad.
it’s getting better.
I basically go into battle strategy mode and have to effectively shop for everything needed for a trip to Philadelphia, from gear, to tickets, to crew and oh, passes to actually get into Made In America.
I leave at 8pm after starting my day at 9pm.
I run off to a shoot for the aforementioned project and wind up sweating up a storm, continuing panic for Saturday’s ultra long day and get a shining piece of mail that says, ‘come to this hotel, pick up your passes, the rest is up to you.’
Is it ever.