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.