sleepy south suburban summer x
sleepy south suburban summer x
ha ha ha gonna try and do a ballet class tomorrow. I think it’s been 2.5 years since the last one and something like six since I trained regularly.
Lolllllllll my bosses pronounce my name wrong every time. And my coworker who’s the department assistant told me today like, look, that’s probably not going to change.
The Dan Humphrey of Beers
Dan Humphrey was the villain of Gossip Girl long before the final reveal that he was Gossip Girl. Or maybe, honestly, he was more of a villain before that, I mean, Dan Humphrey, ultimate Lit Major, a scarecrow stuffed with pages from a Charles Bukowski novel, mummified in tweed and washed denim, soaked in whiskey and lit on fire in an exposed-brick loft that won’t burn down because it’s made of hard cash after all. Sorry if you like him, sorry, sorry, I mean, not sorry at all, I mean, it’s just I don’t really like suede or Godard. I don’t like artisan heritage hiking backpacks and I don’t like Dan Humphrey stalking the edges of beautiful things in flannel like he knows about something better, even though his eyes are always glued to the same things we’re all looking at.
They say beer is an acquired taste but it’s a pretty easy taste to acquire if the beer you’re drinking is basically canned sparkling dishwater, by which I mean, if you go to like, three parties ever. I am ideologically pro-cocktail, at least cocktails that are stupid and pink and have an umbrella in them, but for the most part in real life I drink beer because, listen, PBR is hella cheap and I am broke as shit. Actually, at home I drink Rolling Rock, which is usually cheaper but I buy it mostly because I like the packaging, which is a pretty good way to choose your alcohol; or actually, to choose anything. It’s green. Anyway, there’s a bar down the street from my apartment where you can get a PBR and a shot of tequila and a taco for $4 and I’m just not gonna turn that shit down just to drink something more self-characterizing. In this way I am not Dan Humphrey; but, unfortunately, I am also not Blair Waldorf—but that’s mostly because Blair would never have to go for a $4 drink special. Blair is wearing Miu Miu and drinking a $25 Bellini right at this very moment because she knows what that means and she can afford to mean anything she wants to; it’s not bad to know what you want to mean, it’s just bad to mean something that makes you an asshole.
There’s a kind of boy who uses Kerouac and Ginsburg and Hemingway and Bukowski like a cologne that smells like worn paperbacks and cigarettes and Masculine Sweat; that is, atomized into the air around them, forced into the nose of anyone who comes too close, applied while looking in a mirror.
Those boys drink whiskey, mostly, no offense to whiskey as a liquid (but much offense to whiskey as a particular kind of sociocultural indicator). When those boys aren’t drinking whiskey, they drink IPAs, because IPAs are bitter and inaccessible and dense and everything in this whole trash world is a metaphor.
There’s a kind of girl that really does want to go see a French New Wave movie at the Film Forum and I used to be one of those girls and that’s okay that’s good that’s even beautiful but god, I’ve seen my fair share of French New Wave films in smallish poorly-cleaned repertory cinemas and every boy there with me in the dark in a loose frayed coat and ankle boots has never really known anything at all except the feel of his own heavy tongue against his teeth. You think they see the same thing in the screen that you do but they almost never do and you realize too late you shouldn’t have let them ruin things by making them signifiers that are mostly about their own two-day patchy stubble. And now almost everything Bresson ever did is just stubble on someone else’s face and that doesn’t belong to you.
In order to acquire a taste you have to have an incentive to partake, for a while, in something you don’t actually enjoy; everyone’s first taste of coffee is fucking horrifying but caffeine is pretty nice; everyone hates the shit out of pretty much any alcohol the first time they ever drink but drinking is fun. But the shades of intention between specific alcohol choices are more complicated than just “enjoyment of being drunk outweighs distaste for taste of alcohol until taste of alcohol is no longer offensive;” sure, they’re tied up in inherent preference (you can’t control your tastebuds, I guess) but just as tied up in meaning. A lot of people learned to like IPAs not because they loved them the first time they tried them, but because they wanted to be a person who drinks IPAs, because that means something, because everything means something, because this is the world, pal. If alcohol didn’t mean anything most people would probably like, stick with the jungle juice they first learned to tolerate in high school, forever.
This is simultaneously empowering and disemporwering: you can maybe teach yourself to be whoever you want to be, but the symbols you’ll use to do so are inescapable whether or not you want to use them as symbols. You can try to use any double meaning but rarely a single one. And not everything will always belong to you even if you wish it did.
I like IPAs, actually. I tried not to but there’s something about the harsh bitterness that really gets me. Every sip is kind of like saying FUCK YOU really loudly to somebody that deserves it. I guess I just drank enough of them that that harsh shout felt natural on my tongue. I guess I kind of started to think maybe I could direct that shout at anybody I wanted.
It’s important that Dan Humphrey went to the Film Forum a lot, but, ultimately, so did Blair Waldorf and I guess it’s sometimes easy to forget that Dan Humphrey really only exists because Blair Waldorf does, I mean, Gossip Girl is about Blair Waldorf, don’t argue with me. You think that Dan Humphrey can turn Céline et Julie vont En Bateau into a wisp of clove cigarette smoke disappearing into the rafters of a brooklyn loft but if you try hard enough even something so aggressively claimed can feel like it belongs to you. Dan Humphrey is writing a secret gossip blog about Blair Waldorf and if Blair Waldorf wanted to drink IPAs she could, and they, like everything in the world, could belong to her.
since seeing bughouse square I’ve been trying to come up with my answer: what’s the defining moment for our generation? and now I’ve got it. harry potter.
Stop doing everything. Don’t say anything or be anything. Get as small as you possibly can without disappearing. Don’t exist. Or keep existing, but differently than before.
Remember: criticism is the same thing as wholesale condemnation and also murder, so react accordingly.
Apologize, but don’t really mean it, and plant a seed of secret resentment so deep in your own heart that years later you can’t even remember that you’re the one who nurtured it and made it grow, it seems that much like a native part of you.
Sink into a hole so deep that no one can ever find you.
No. No. No. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no NO. NO.
JUST DIE. JUST GET SICK AND DIE AND THEN YOU’LL FEEL TERRIBLE YOU EVER SAID THOSE THINGS BECAUSE I’LL BE DEAD AND YOU’LL BE SO SO SO SORRY AND YOU’LL WISH YOU COULD BRING ME BACK BUT YOU CAN’T.
Give up on all of your goals immediately.
Tell everyone you know about the criticism, but in a way that makes it clear that you expect them to publicly find it ridiculous and assure you there’s not a shred of truth to it. Do this repeatedly, first while sober, then later after several glasses of wine on a Wednesday afternoon when no one else is really drinking except for you. “Can you believe it?” Ask them that repeatedly. “Can you believe that? About me?” Ask until no one will meet your eyes.
Spit until your throat bleeds.
Remember that life is a rich tapestry.
Become so rich and strong and tall that you’re a giant made out of gold and nobody can hurt you and everything you do is perfect and you can use your laser diamond eyes to melt the lungs of your enemies.
Dwell on it.
You can either be perfect or the biggest piece of shit who ever existed but not both, so if the criticism is right, you are the biggest piece of shit who ever existed. If it is not right, you are perfect and everyone else is wrong.
Fall in love with whoever criticized you. Don’t walk away until you’ve ruined their marriage.
Whisper their criticism every night to yourself until you have it memorized, word for word. Remember it forever. Have the words stitched into the shroud that covers your body before you’re lowered into the tomb so you and your criticism can embrace one another for eternity.
Do not rise above it. Never rise above anything. The sky is no place for a human.
Be sure not to separate the tone of the criticism from the content. If it was said ungracefully, it cannot be true. If it was said reasonably, it cannot be false.
Send an email explaining why you don’t deserve to be criticized, then another six emails after that, each one explaining the last, like a set of Russian nesting dolls that don’t think it’s your fault.
Set fire to something that was once beautiful.
Run into a cave and break your ankle so that people have to come find you and they see you lying at the bottom of this beautiful cave and maybe there’s a waterfall and the light from the crystals makes you look really beautiful and they say “Are you okay?” and you say “I think so” and they say “oh my God have you been here alone this whole time with a broken ankle” and you say “it’s okay” and they say “you’re so brave” and you are brave and you look so beautiful surrounded by cave crystals and everyone stands over you and says “oh wow” and “you poor beautiful thing” and “I’m so sorry we let you run into the cave but I’m so glad we found you” and let them carry you home and promise to be your best friends forever and that everything’s their fault and also they named the cave after you and you’re prettier than all of your enemies and your enemies all died of jealousy while you were in the cave.
Remember that there are only two kinds of people in the world: fans and haters. No true fan would ever express a criticism of you or your work; conversely no hater could ever seek to engage in a good-faith debate about something you said or did they disagree with. Dismiss everything everyone has to say about you.
If it’s a close friend, say “Thank you for being so honest with me,” and then never talk to them again.
Do something with your feelings right away. It doesn’t matter what. Lash out, make a sculpture, whatever.
Log into YouTube and call someone “living Hitler” and “a waste of skin” until you feel better about yourself.
Remember, if someone doesn’t like your work, that means they don’t like you, and they wish that you had never been born, so just lay down in the road and die.
Do not rise above it. Never rise above anything. The sky is no place for a human.
I would sort of love to go home for a week and run errands for my mom. And read in the hammock and take a bike ride through Hamilton. Mostly, I miss the June strawberries grown locally at the farms. I miss being in my parents’ really clean, air conditioned home. And it’s scaring me how much I miss that place.
Feeling better today, health wise. At a sudden loss for how to be happy. The heat is not helping in either department.
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Brazilian police clash with indigenous groups protesting World Cup.
This is important.
The only kind of thing I’ll be posting about the World Cup
We will not see this on the main stream news.
Can we get some sources up in here?
You know today was pretty great. Not much traffic on the commute, good if overwhelming first day at work. It’s a lot of micromanagement, but I might as well get used to that sort of workload. Then I got myself signed up to take a beginning Spanish course for not a whole lot of money.
Would have been great except I have the flu.
diane guerrero + instagram