spipster

i cant believe this thing is still on.

i always thought new york city kept you young... hip... cool. but i've only skimmed over my last post and quickly realized just how much you can age in a new york year. or five.

i don't give enough of a shit at present moment to document the ways this here life has evolved since i last neglected this space. plus, the efficiency of my memory is hella questionable. 

so, we shall start from today.

therapy is a luxury i simply cannot afford at the moment and i doubt it'd do me any better than writing has proven to do in the past. grammatical errors, inconsistent tense usages and all. so i'm giving the ol' blog a second go as an experiment in self-soothing, exploration and reflection. oh, and most importantly, indulgence. 

so. much. indulgence. why? because this is nyc and the most your friends will give you is about twenty minutes total to unload all your shit, a few empathetic nods, and a cliche positive catchphrase before it's their turn to spiral. here, i can go on forfuckingever because, chances are, no one will ever see it and they certainly won't read past the first few lines.

i've been feeling like a walking eye rolling emoji lately. i am over it all. not like i want to jump off the williamsburg bridge or anything crazy but i have considered throwing myself on the train tracks of the marcy ave j platform. that motherfucker runs slow enough to guarantee a failed suicide attempt for. sure. 

okokokok, that's a wee bit dramatic. life's actually pretty aiight, in general. i'm working, but i'm honestly feeling like i'm not getting any type of respect on my name in my industry considering. i also feel like a bitch is turning into one of those people who has a career and nothing more... no nothing else. a real Deliver Us From Eva-ass, Miranda Priestly-ass, Pat McGrath-ass spinster-in-training.  side note, i've been trying all day to get this one joke off and neither of my test audience so much as chuckled.

wanna hear it?
spipsters.

the punchline is Spipsters: a new term for millennial women who are part spinster and part hipster. get it? still crickets, i'm guessing. anyways, i've become super career obsessed and my career been treating me like it's not fucking with me like that so i'm looking for a hobby to have an affair with. any ideas?

i've been trying on men but bitch, just...no. i mean, i do think i may have stumbled upon a normal one this summer though. he's a whole lot of shit i've never been able to say about any other dude- and in a good way. but he has a set of red flags that, while slow to show, are probably about to send one of us off the williamsburg bridge for sure. yes, i can clearly see that i sound like a pessimist and yes, that is who i generally am as a person but in this case, just trust that i'm not being nuts. that, or, i actually am completely fucking nuts. blame it on bushwick.

yup, i'm slumming it up in bushwick after two years in battery park. i love my new place but the neighborhood is dirty as fuck. i live a stone's throw away from an off-again on-again boo that i've figured out waaaayy too many alternative routes home in effort to not run into. my neighbor cracks open the fire hydrant for their kids to play in damn near everyday. and it's practically october. i thought the shit was very spike lee's brooklyn at first. now it just makes me think about the earth's limited natural resources and gives me anxiety. i hate it. help.

have you ever read 'the bell jar'?

when i was reading it, more than a few women warned me the book was dangerous. i was like, 'maybe for you, sis, but im from detroit'. i have since adopted this theory that the book is like one of those movies where if your nosey ass watches a certain tape, or open a certain book/door/whatever-the-fuck, you're automatically doomed. no escape. that's the bell jar. that's where i am right now. except the doom is an eternal state of meh more than anything else.