Tuesday, March 31, 2009


Sunday, March 29, 2009

Moving Out--For Real This Time

Eight months ago, I told you that we'd be moving our site to Wordpress and operating under our very own domain name.

Well guess what, readers? It's finally happening! Tech god Mazi (who designed the amazing changing banner on the top of our site) is helping us make the transition doing this entire thing for us, for free, because he is an incredible person to whom I offer my sincerest thanks and the promise of sexual favors, should he ever want them. So forgive us if we spend the next day or two not really posting: it's just that we'll be doing techie things instead of creative-writing-y things.

Oh man I hope we don't break the Internet.


Cool Advertising

This video is beautifully shot and does nothing but intensify my already powerful desire to return to Paris. I miss it so much.


P.S. Just read the description and realized Sofia Coppola directed it. Makes sense, she makes beautiful films (I know nothing about film but whatever I loooove The Virgin Suicides).


My roommate Ashley along with Josh and Sam helped me make a really shitty video for my new media class explaining how different generations use social media. Josh really wanted it to be posted here. It's incredibly poorly executed but my video editing skills have never been something to brag about. (Try to) Enjoy.


Josh's note: I don't know why I associate Gen X with vocal huskiness, but I apparently do.

Sunday Mornings

If Josh were straight he'd be even creepier than a deadbeat dad:

JESS: come over and we'll go to polonia.
JOSH: ok let me get dressed.
JESS: ok
JOSH: can you greet me topless?
JESS: LOL why??
JOSH: just like
JOSH: can you?
JESS: maybe
JOSH: does there need to be a reason?


Josh's note: She did not.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Car Crashes

My little sister got into a pretty serious car accident last night. She is injury-free and I'm not allowed to blog about any of the details (familial obligation!), but I'm kind of freaking out a little bit. This was one of my worst nightmares; she just turned 17 and is 5 feet tall and I always worry about her driving because I still see her as my baby sister, and the idea of her maneuvering a vehicle still weirds me out. I dread getting phone calls where my Dad's voice goes all low and somber. I've gotten a couple in my time, believe me, and they never bode well. Luckily everyone is safe and unharmed, just shaken up and with expensive car bills to pay.

My biggest fear is losing someone close to me: when and if it ever happens, I will probably just up and run away and not speak to anyone for awhile, as that is the mature way I handle most of my problems. Perhaps I should take P Diddy's Tweets to heart and learn to better prioritize my life.

Also I just got a text from my sister that my Dad got into a car accident today. WTF? WTF, Roy family? Can we learn how to drive, please? He is also fine but now both of our cars are fucked up. And great, we prob can't afford to fix them cuz of the recession. THANKS, LIFE. My sister adds, "I don't know what's going on but we don't have luck!" Actually we do. Our cars may be broken but our hearts are intact. (Fade out)


Backless Dresses are Back (Ha)

There is something about backless dresses I find incredibly sexy. I'm not one for showing a ton of skin, though my penchant for shirts-as-dresses has become somewhat of a Jessica Roy staple and if it's below the knee I probably won't wear it. But backless clothes are a simple, easy way to feel sexy. Today after running around SoHo/the East Village with Josh and Sam, I came home and decided to browse my favorite online boutiques instead of spending money I don't have. Here are my favorite backless items:

Being a Dick on the Internet is so 2003

The funny thing about the internet is I can see what you Twitter about me. I'm not sure what the deal is but people really don't realize that the internet isn't a private conversation. It's highly public. And there are these things called "search engines" and one of your friends might jokingly type your name into one and then, mortifyingly enough, all the sites that have mentioned your name will appear. It's soooo weird, you guys, you should try it. Case and point: Twitter Search. It's this cool little device and it'll show you who's talking about you! And like, who's talking about you might be some absolutely obnoxious girl from Texas whom you've never met or spoken to or even heard of in your entire life, but who has decided to post a tweet about you anyway because of something she read on a gossip site like, 8 months ago. LOLZ.

I'm really, really tired of this. I'm serious. For some reason this has gotten me way more angry this morning than any of the other shit ever written about me, potentially because this random girl was unfairly critiquing something I worked incredibly hard on and was very proud of, but also because it's just gotten so fucking old. The internet has been around for awhile now, folks. Can't we figure out how to use it for good instead of evil? Can't our moral backbones catch up with our technological necessity? I don't think I'll ever get the whole "I'm going to be mean on the internet just because I can" movement, and besides, how middle school/2003 is it anyway?

Why can't the internet just be a beautiful place where we send each other e-cards (someecards, even!) and tag pictures on Facebook of us drinking and having a lovely time, and post videos of giggling babies on YouTube*, and people can blog their little hearts out and if you don't have something nice to say, JUST LIKE IN REAL LIFE, you don't say anything at all? Because at this point, with adults spending 8 hours in front of a screen each day, the internet basically is real life, so maybe, just maybe, if you consider yourself a good person in real life, you should stop acting like a complete asshole on the internet. It's not that hard, people!

I've written about this before (also here, here, and here) and so have millions of other people so I really don't need to rehash it any further, but seriously, how much longer will it take for people to realize that it's not cool to shit all over other people via HTML???


*Laughing babies:

Friday, March 27, 2009

Okay I Can't Stay That Depressed On Such a Nice Day


I am drinking Naked juice, by the way. And it is indeed making me better feeling in this hot, stuffy office.


Squeeze Play

I am afflicted with that most awful of mental conditions: self-loathing. On top of all the stress and guilt that comes with forcing your mom to give you what little money she can every week--still, still too spoiled for my own good, still not ready for authentic independence--because I can't find a job, I have a habit of magnifying the bad things in my life while ignoring the good.

My high school psychology teacher said this is a normal thing for people to do: according to him, Kristi Yamaguchi once said she could perform nine perfect routines and screw up once, but all she'd remember afterwards was the one low score, the one missed turn, the one slip on the ice because she didn't bend her knees before the salchow jump. I guess I'm a lot like Kristi Yamaguchi that way.

Because you know that when I bitch about something, I'm leaving things out; it's nothing intentional, but since all I see in myself is room for improvement, I focus on what needed improvement, on what went wrong. It's like constantly adjusting the picture on the wall, trying to get it level. It always looks a little crooked.

The picture: a hip party in Chinatown. It's a "gay party," so I already feel inadequate. I've always felt inadequate around my gay friends, who dress better, who tell stories funnier, who date men and give perfect blow jobs and can manage to do their hair in the morning even when they're hungover. And the ones who "aren't like that" just seem so happy with themselves for being exceptions to the rule that heteronormative men bequeathed the gay community after they learned they had to tolerate everyone; it's my legacy to wear skinny jeans, because I'm different, the legacy that maybe left the stage after the AIDS crisis and Rent brought gayness to the straight world's attention, the legacy that despite having left sticks to me anyway like flypaper.

And all the people at this party--all the guys, anyway--are exactly what you'd expect them to be. Perfect. Popular, fashionable, confident, and all of a sudden I feel like I'm back in high school, secretly praying for some stranger's admiration but really just trying not to get laughed at, and the drinks were too expensive and the music was a little too twee and the two friends with whom I'd arrived are having a great time and man, am I bringing them down. I drag them to a booth in the back. I shouldn't drink so much while taking antidepressants, my psychiatrist tells me, and I don't believe her until I start to feel sad--really sad--way sadder than is called for, even at the most tragic of parties. And I'm sad and stirring my drink with the slice of lime and playing with my phone and wishing I'd stayed home and I keep hearing: "What's wrong? Are you okay?" Those are the worst questions to hear when something's actually wrong, because how can I tell my friends what I'm feeling, everything, that I feel like my history is slithering up my body like a snake and it's going to poison my smile with the kind of sadness usually reserved for old people who've lost something, like a loved one in a war.

I excuse myself; I have to use the bathroom, yes, right now; I walk to the first deserted hallway I find and cry, not even tear up but actually start sobbing like they do in romance novels, because I'm a broken little toy whose owner never cared enough to fix him, which is what I feel like every time I say something wrong, I trip over a crack in the sidewalk, I hurt my friend's feelings, I'm ignored by stupid guys at a dumb party that I've placed on a pedestal because if I can't compare myself with anyone then I can't feel inferior, and feeling inferior is what I'm all about, man, and as long as I can keep feeling inferior and keep trying to improve myself then I won't have to reach...wholeness, which frightens me with its finality and resolution more than any growling bouncer ever could.

Did you know I used to have social anxiety? Yes, of course you knew that, you have to have known, and maybe it was just too much time stuffed in the closet or being the only kid in my sixth-grade class who gave a fuck about the presidents or the chemicals in my brain knocking against themselves like bumper cars, little electric shocks bouncing off my nerves and making my limbs move towards the corner of the room, the exit door, my bed where I can masturbate and feel in control of my idealized love life, which has always just been in my head anyway.

When I say anxiety, I mean the kind of thing for which they give medication, and the fact that I never took pills for my issues as a kid is either a sad testament to my weakening spirit or evidence of the increasing influence of the pharmaceutical industry. I remember being at my aunt's house in Florida and sitting at a long table in her backyard and the air felt like syrup and I was sweating so much beneath my cargo shorts and I kept squeezing my aunt's hand under the table because she knew how uncomfortable I felt. There was nothing she could do but keep squeezing my hand and asking me if I was feeling better, which only made things worse, and when dinner was over I ran into the room I was staying in to play with my Game Boy and pretend I'd won everyone over with my charisma--me, in my ridiculous Abercrombie t-shirt that I'd picked out specially for the occasion and cargo shorts and sneakers with mismatching socks--and nothing's ever changed, not a damn thing, because I still rely on my family members to squeeze my hand and give me money and argue with me so I have something to be mad about, and on the walk home from the sad tragic hip party I could have sworn I'd been noticed and liked even though I was never technically invited in the first place.

As we were leaving I made eye contact with a Facebook friend. You know the deal, we saw each other, meekly waved, we'd never met in real life, he'd friended me, and it was a nice moment because that probably means he has a crush on me until I realized: he was sitting in a booth with a bunch of friends, and I was leaving while trying to keep my head down so nobody could see my tear-stained eyes. I'd wanted to leave a while before but my friends would've left with me because they're too nice and I didn't want to ruin anyone's good time more than I'd probably already had so I just stayed and sat there and drank too much and took off my jacket dramatically--as if to say, hello party, I have arrived--and then I started wondering who the hell these people thought they were anyway, because that's the path: insecurity, sadness, anger, a path I've tread so often that they've practically named it after me by now. Who the hell are these people and why do I want to impress them so badly? It's so difficult for me to feel grateful for the amazing friends I have, friends who are more perfect than the most handsomely dressed boy's shoeshine eyes and ironed shirt, perfect not because they're perfect people--nobody's perfect, in case you didn't know--but because they allow me to keep coming back to them even after I fuck up over and over and over again, and all I want to do is apologize, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Sam and Dhani if I brought down your mood at the party, I'm sorry Jason for ignoring all your offers for dates because my standards are too high, I'm sorry Stephanie that I stopped talking to you in high school after prom and I told you I didn't want to be your friend anymore in a letter written with a mechanical pencil, I'm sorry Allison who was a fairy in our senior play that I allowed my friends to cut you out of our lives even though I always really liked you, I'm sorry Marc that I made you uncomfortable all those years by copping occasional feels and staring at you too long when we were in our swimsuits but you have to understand that I was just so desperate and lonely and didn't know how to handle my homosexuality as a child, I'm sorry Zach for not being a better brother when I lived at home, and I'm sorry Aunt Mady for squeezing your hand so hard.


Thursday, March 26, 2009

Josh and I Have Been Reading Too Much Hipster Runoff

Convo via text:

JOSH: dont u hate when ur reading something on a laptop for so long that yr eyes start 2 hurt
JESS: h8 it srsly. need 2 figure out how 2 adjust our eyez 2 changing technology. just want 2 have eyes that can constantly absorb memes/tweets/drunk msgs from ex-bfs
JOSH: need 2 drop owt of sk00l & bcum a meme factory on utube
JESS: need 2 get glasses that reflect our changing times
JOSH: need 2 get shutter shadez so i can be on vice.com as a "do"
JESS: <3 u vice.com, h8 u old school eyes
JOSH: i wish my synapses in my brain had wifi so i could tweet my dreamz
JESS: miss u twitter when i lay my head 2 rest

GOD. Why is it not Friday?


Gettin literary

Sam lent me Tao Lin's book, Bed, and I found this passage particularly moving:

Though probably it was not even love that Sean dreamed of, but some sleight of love, some trick of crush or inwardly thwarted desire, like a chemical seed; or else some boldly fraudulent expectation--an expectation that leads a fantasy out into the real world, gets it an apartment, and, illegally, a job-- as Sean had probably never been in love. He'd once told a girlfriend that he loved her,but had then felt suddenly vanquished, as if in swift and arrow-y battle, on some nighttime field; as if the world, in that moment, had thought of him, and mastered him; memorized and set him aside, like a learned thing. The world was maybe finished with Sean. And yet-- he remained. Alive, doing things (eating, writing a novel, moving to Manhattan), as there was still, and always, the feeling--the suspicion-- that the world knew him, and loved him, that the world was trying hard to convey this, was forming itself a language, progressing gradually, thoughtwardly, and slowly, along. Which was, perhaps, the sensation of being alive--the reason why Sean existed, kept going-- the waiting of that, the faith in it, that there was a big thing of love out there, a mansion of it, and that the world, however incompetent, was trying every day to get Sean there, was thinking of where he should go, and how.


"Ryan has too many friends"

While potentially true, I was shocked when I went to add the love of my life-- Ryan Conklin, from this season's Real World Brooklyn, on Facebook. There's an "error" because he has "too many friends." Didn't realize this was possible on Facebook. Think he just blocked people from friending him to keep away all the e-stalkers like myself? Potentially, but we have 3 mutual friends, presumably all people who were doing the same creepy thing as me and blindly friending him after seeing how hot he is on MTV. Boo Facebook.


The Chinese Are Taking Over

The Freedom Tower, a symbol of American resilience and unrelenting patriotism in the face of tragedy and strife, built on the former site of the World Trade Center, controlled by that tri-state bulwark called the Port Authority, has found its first tenant! And it's...a Chinese real estate company.

Look, internationalism is wonderful, we love everybody, we should not mock the Chinese people, true true true. But come on. Wouldn't it have been wonderful if the first tenants of the Freedom Tower, thereby serving as a symbol of American rebirth, came from...America? I'm not saying "white," I'm saying a company based in the United States. Oh well. Maybe I'm just a wee bit red-state that way.


JSF Interview

Here you are!