Why, hello there! As I live and breathe! I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, I feel. I’m currently reporting in from New York’s Hudson Valley, which, as I glance as it through the glass door to my right that my odd cat paddles at longingly at all day, is looking robustly autumnal and lovely on this particular October Wednesday. I haven’t moved here permanently; it’s just a pleasant place to come and write, listen to Velocity Girl, and gaze at the cat as she, in turn, gazes at the decaying foliage with a feline version of this song very likely coursing through her furry dome. (Side note: I fucking love Akon so much.)
So. So! What else is new? Well, it’s probably worth noting that I quit my day job at BuzzFeed exactly a week ago today in order to return to a more, shall we say, unrestrained life, in which I can costume myself daily in one of my manifold decades-old cheerleading uniforms, plus am no longer professionally required to conceal the existence of my last condiment-rife photo shoot, which took place in a heart-shaped motel Jacuzzi filled with dollar-menu McDo cheeseburgers. What can I say? I believe nudes should be tasteful in more ways than one and, when possible, (non-euphemistically) involve pickles.
Aw, but you know I’d be fibbing if I told you that unleashing my burger-laden bod unto the world was the real motivation behind my defection from the Land of the LOLcats. All will be revealed shortly, comrades. In the meanwhile, let’s reminisce about my recently-forgone job for a moment—it was enormously fun, for example, to attempt (quite unsuccessfully) to fend off tears in Richard Hell’s apartment, and make a pilgrimage to Nowhere, Colorado to stand at the feet of Paul Westerberg as I mooned over the Replacements with some stray teenagers, and, of course, to lose a shoe at McDonald’s, an establishment which is quickly becoming the accidental nexus of this post, as I tried my hand at attending Fashion Week for the first time.
Otherwise, during this brief interstice between jobs, I’ve been sustaining myself with vast quantities of Mary Gaitskill short stories, each of which scurries off with a new part of my heart as I finish it, foraging for deer mandibles and ancient, foggily-glassed bottles in the prodigious forest behind this strange new upstate haven, and running my meathooks lovingly through my recently-acquired hair extensions, which have the nice effect of making me feel like the imaginary fifth member of Mötley Crüe. This, truth be told, is not too shabby a state of mind—the Crüe, after all, understands the great affection I held in high school for smoking near institutional toilets, not to mention, of course, for girls, girls, girls.
Yow. So that’s how tricks have been of late. I hope you’re well, too, and at the very least, that you’re living your version of trying to build a reputation as the fast-food version of Jayne Mansfield, which is to say, your version of the truth. Have a beautiful rest of your autumn, killer.