Thursday, May 15

Back and Back and Back


God damn, it's been a while. While I'd like to say that I've been too busy wrapping my brain up in this Jay-Be-Solange nonsense to write, the truth is, I've been distracted. I was in Los Angeles, I was working, I was writing, and I was uncomfortable. Seriously, most of the reason I haven't posted in so long actually be that I cannot find a chair that's decent enough to sit in and write. Even now, my neck muscles are on fire, but with Barry's Bootcamp on the afternoon horizon, today apparently won't be a day for quitting out of discomfort.

So, what's been happening, you ask? Well, here's a couple a'thangs:




I wrote a new article for Teen Vogue about giving your ex a second chance, because holy christ, do I know from experience. You know that Brokeback Mountain meme about not being able to quit you? Yeah, that was me for about four straight years with this one dude while locked inside a brick building called school. (And attempting to cure my obvious ADD by going in *every single day* for math tutoring help instead of taking little magic pills.) If you're on the fence about getting back with your ex and need some real talk from an honest pal who has lived it a whole hell of a lot of times, click-a this link and you'll be good to go.




The Young The Giant boys came in town, and I fully reaped the benefits of their endless world travels — all without hacking into their account to steal frequent flier miles. I didn't ask a lot of questions, but somehow, they met Eric Ripert on a tropical island where they were playing a show and became friends. And, somehow, that friendship resulted in me eating four gorgeous, delicious, perfect sesame rolls on top of a seven-course meal in a private dining room at Le Bernardin. I know. I still don't understand how it happened. Or what is in those god damn sesame rolls. I'd been to Le Bern before, but going up those grandma-carpeted stairs (!) with no dress code (!) to a private floor (!) was beyond. The night was incredible as fuck, even if we were collectively mediocre at putting on our professional adult faces and attempting to act quasi-normal. If you've ever wanted to know what it's like to attempt to blend in at the Harvard Club with ten of your closest friends, well, I imagine it's something like that. But, undeniable bonus: everyone was so busy moaning about their full bellies that I was able to sneak a tiny caramel shortbread off someone else's plate, into a napkin, and straight into my purse for the next day. Epitome of class, people. EPITOME. OF CLASS.




I finally found The One, you guys. Oh, oh no— I'm not talking about that wedding I'm having next year. I'm talking about this dope-as-fuck jumpsuit up top that floated into my life and directly into my heart. Let me set the scene: I was walking home, starving, swinging a ridiculous salad from the new Sweetgreen Tribeca back and forth in a bag when before I knew it, I was in a florescent dressing room, wearing a pair of pants up to my tits that made me look like I carry a Florida license and play Mahjong in my spare time.

I had never been in or near one of those "club clothes" stores in Soho — you know, where everything is made of mystery spandex or a junkier version of Forever 21's beloved viscose — but my legs took me straight inside once I saw this lil' number. I was in a jumpsuit-oriented fugue state, like a child who hears and ice cream truck and is just physically summoned towards it. I know I joked about wearing this daily, but something about the full-body FUPA it gives me just represents my state of summertime mind more than anything else possibly ever could. Or will.

Bring on the humidity, New York City! I may be sweating through whatever material this is from tit to toe, but i'll be looking good. (OK. Questionably good.)

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