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!


Wednesday, March 25, 2009

"Do you only listen to music that Pitchfork gave an 8.3? Did your haircut come with these albums?"

This video is fucking hilarious, and perpetuates my already well-established crush on Gizmodo hottie Adam Frucci.



Hey, guess what? Today I got to walk around the Village, groping my newly-purchased reporter's recorder, chattin' about writing with my favorite contemporary author of all time. Uh-huh, just a regular day, ya know, discussing the writing process, books, literary feuds, etc with Jonathan Safran Foer. Ain't no thang.


Interview up on NYU Local tomorrow morning, blog post to follow on J&J.

P.S. Thank god Blogger doesn't have a "moods" indicator like Livejournal does (heh just rememberin' this from HS, ok? Ok.) because right now I'd be restraining myself from putting "giddy."

Tweet of the Day

C/o my friend Luvina. SO TRUE. (and let's pretend she spelled site right)


Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Curioser and Curioser

Hm look at that the Tumblr just seemed to update itself how did that happen? Since you can't comment on it I guess you should just reply to it here, on this post. Hm.


Craigslist is a Sad Place, Part 1

On today's installment of Josh Mocks the Jobs He Can't Get, we'll take a look at an ad that ignores the children, a desperate role reversal, and old people trying to use the Internet. As usual, click screen grabs for bigger.

1.Okay welcome to the Bronx! I mean, whatever school posted this ad is clearly in need of an educated teacher because Jesus Christ what is going on with this grammar. More importantly, what kind of experience are they looking for? "Professional" ones. So if I say that I taught my kids back at summer camp how to get on a teenager's nerves in under a minute--at a professional job that paid professional money--would I be a candidate? Who knows! Also, the contact email for this job is in the UK. Sounds totally legit!

2. This dude will pay you 500 bucks if you help him get a job. In fairness, I understand his desperation (I love my internship, but stipend money ain't cutting it). What's great though is that this guy tarnishes his endearing vulnerability with demands. A lot of demands! A lot of demands for someone who's just placed a Craigslist ad looking for a job. He wants to be a "concept artist." He also wants to be a full-time artist; in other words, "no temp job, part time, paid internships, or contract work." Even though all those jobs he just listed pay money, which he clearly lacks. After that he's doing okay, he's saying how he wants someone else to open up the doors and let him into the fantasy magical backroom of graphic design where heaps of artsy jobs are just waiting for the right sad lonely Connecticut college graduate, and then...oh look he got trashy. "If this works, this would solve the first and most obvious bind of being unemployed, so if you help me get out of this it's more than likely I'll feel good enough to throw in something a little extra...." Of course. Of fucking course.

Are you an old person, also called a baby boomer? Then you should check out the Internet! This is a "REAL" job for which "you will utilize Face book and Twitter and other social media to reach out to our target audience." If you use the Facebook and look at weblogs and you also enjoy heavy-handed sailing metaphors, then this is the perfect unpaid internship for you, middle-aged person who should be too old to have an internship! "You must be a creative writer with the brain of a salesperson and the soul of an explorer. Chart new territory, learn to think on your feet, be captain of your own ship..." and float with them, dangling from a single wooden plank, through the cyber seas until you reach the Elysian shores of relevancy, where you will all tweet about how great Bruce Springsteen is and worry about immigration. Ahoy!


Soledad O'Brien and JSF

I saw Soledad O'Brien speak last night at Kimmel; here's the article.

Also, if all goes according to plan, I will finally be interviewing Jonathan Safran-Foer tomorrow, and I couldn't possibly be more excited.


Twouble with Twitter

Awesome Event at The New School







FELICE BELLE Poet, Playwright, & Former Curator of the Friday Night Slam Series at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe

KATHLEEN HANNA Original Riot Grrrl; Frontwoman of Bikini Kill & Le Tigre; Feminist Activist

CLEOPATRA LAMOTHE Youth Development Coordinator, Bushwick Community High School; Advocate for LGBTQ High School Students

COURTNEY E. MARTIN Editor, Feministing.com; Senior Correspondent, The American Prospect; Feminist Writer & Lecturer KATHLEEN SWEENEY Award-winning Video Artist and Author with a Focus on Pop Culture, Gender, & Iconography

MCKENZIE WARK Professor of Media and Cultural Studies at The New School; Courses Include The Girl as Media Image. The panel will be moderated by ANN SNITOW, Chair of the Gender Studies Program.

This looks like my dream panel. I'll cover it for J&J/potentially NYU Local and I'm trying to get Selena to go with me since it seems to be right up her alley. Let me know if you want to join!


Monday, March 23, 2009

Things Worth Reading

Check em out:

1. Hillary Clinton to speak at NYU Class of 2009's commencement. (via NYULocal)
2. How to handle the Facebook redesign revolt. (via Mashable)
3. How different generations use social media (via Marketing Pilgrim)
4. Does Twitter have a business model? (via Mashable)
5. Twitter's past, present and future (via CNet)*
6. Growing up on Facebook (via the NYT Mag-- from 2 weeks ago, so a little dated but it takes me awhile to wade through the endless amount of shit on their website to get to the good stuff)

*"It is indeed a read-write generation that is coming of age in the wake of an all-dominant present, with no particular loyalty to the past and maybe not even an interest in the future." (What do you guys think of this? Read-write generation = good, right?)


P.S. Sorry for the Twitter-heavy links. I was interviewed today by someone from CNN.com for a trend piece he's working on about Twitter so I had all the cultural shifts/tech shit on my mind. Ohhhh tech dork. And I will link to the article when it's up!

We All Have ADD

I have a short attention span, you have a short attention span, we all have short attention spans! So thank the journalism gods for Newser, which cuts down top stories from all over the internet to concise, 1-3 paragraph blurbs. As a budding journalist I'm torn about this: I'm grateful because I want to know what's going on in the world but don't have enough time/patience to wade through my Google Reader (which I NEVER use). But I'm also pissed because um, I want people to read what I write, not just go over to Newser and pick out the boring, dry bones of the story. What's the point of being a good writer if everyone's just going to read the essentially bullet-pointed facts of your piece? LAME. Whatever I'll still use it for all those stories about Michelle Obama's upper arms.


Sunday, March 22, 2009

Away to Old Biscayne

I wrote this poem in high school for some creative writing class. Don't know which grade, but as you'll see, I wrote it before coming out of the closet. I know, lol. All punctuation and footnotes have been left as they were. I can't remember if it was supposed to be funny at the time, but it's pretty damn hilarious now.

I went away to old Biscayne
To find m lover true;
I went away to spend my days
In yearning, feeling blue. (But I never bid adieu!)

I went away to old Biscayne;
I hoped 'twas not in vain,
Bus as the months and years did pass,
My hope began to wane. (I almost went insane.)

But then one day I saw my love
Reposing on a hill,
And as my heart began to start,
I knew I'd lover her still. (I'll get her, yes I will!)

She said that day her name was Faye:
"Oh Josh, the pleasure's mine."
I told her she was beautiful;
I'd love her for all time. (Her breath was sweet as thyme.)

And autumn came and autumn went;
And winter's fury fired.
Our love continued in full force;
It never stopped or tired. (We had all that we desired.)

The snowflakes formed a mountain that
Surrounded our abode;
It blocked the veins of men, it seems;
It also blocked the road. (Oh, fate it seems I owed!)

And my love coughed and my love sneezed
And came down with a cold;
Her feet were clay, her eyes were shut,
She said that she felt old. (Oh the pain of which she told!)

Her cold grew worse, her coughs became
The source of violent bile
That rushed out of her stomach like
An inundation vile. (Though her eyes could still beguile.)

My love was not quite good enough,
For medicine she needed;
She needed an infirmary,
For doctors she'd have heeded. (If only we'd succeeded!)

And finally her eyes closed shut
And outward her lungs heaved;
It was her final sigh on earth,
The last time that she breathed. (I was suddenly bereaved!)

The winter passed and summer came
To melt the snow away,
But it could not erase the tears
I shed for my lost Faye. (How sad--she went away.)

But then fair Faye rose from the ground,
A corpse with rotting skin.
Her eyes held fire, her feet were cloven,
And quite broken in. (You may cue the violin.)

And then she gasped and choked back tears
As, from her fattened womb,
A demon child with bloody spittle
Sent her to the tomb. (It was truly her doom.)

(And then her face went boom.)

Then something flew across the air
And hit me in the back;
I turned to see what left ts mark--
'Twas the amniotic sac! (Oh Lord, cut me some slack.)

My heart a-thumping, thumping loud
Within my blighted breast,
I picked up the membranous pouch
And held it 'gainst mt chest. ('Twas as rough as orange zest*.)

The putrid corpse lunged for my feet
As though to muck me up;
I managed, though, to dart away
Fast as a collie pup. (Oh, where's that damned prenup?)

And finally she grabbed the child
And stuck her tongue at me,
And twirled around and then trudged off
In deathly misery. (And that's my tale, you see.)

I went away to old Biscayne
But I was led astray.
My lover's corpse tried to murder me,
Much to my dismay. (And I've nothing more to say.)

*Orange zest Tiny bits of orange peel.


Saturday, March 21, 2009

"Which came first, the internet or my intimacy issues?"*

One of the reasons I went home this weekend was so that I could see my therapist and he could refill my prescription for antidepressants. Unfortunately our little chat turned into him convincing me it's time to wean myself off of them- not really a suggestion I wanted to hear considering I'm currently freaking out about my life's trajectory.

I've been taking antidepressants for 3 years; long enough to be completely adjusted to (and perhaps reliant upon) them, but short enough for me to remember what a complete terror I was off of them. Blackout crying fits, uncontrollable anxiety and OCD, frequent lashing out. I was literally a completely different person. I started taking them when I was 18, so who knows how much of my poor behavior back then stemmed from pure teenage angst. But it was awful enough that I would not willingly return to that place. It's not even for myself: I could NOT put my friends and family through that again. And no one at college knew me before I went on them, so I think it would be difficult and strange for them to have to go through that harsh period of adjustment I'd undoubtedly have to endure.

When I was 18 I didn't really consider the repercussions going on antidepressants at such a young age might reap. I was just so... blank. I couldn't stop doing all of my little rituals, I couldn't stop crying for no reason other than pure frustration over minuscule things like being unable to find a lost sweater at 7am before school. Everyone knew I was kind of fucking crazy but I didn't talk to anyone about it, because I have this wall up, and ugh my therapist totally was all, "you know that wall relates to everything in your life?" like how I'd prefer to type all this into an unemotional little white box instead of confide in someone personally about it, or how I date assholes instead of nice guys because I'm afraid of actually *liking* someone and having that turn into something real, and how I completely shut down when anyone in my family attempts to discuss something serious. I have been like this my entire life, using the pen and the fucking keyboard to keep everyone at a safe enough distance. Try talking to me about any of this in real life and I will probably RUN from you, like, physically ESCAPE. (No but seriously please don't try talking to me about this IRL)

Soooo my therapist wants me to work through all of this shit, and he thinks I need to do it not on antidepressants. I've tried to go off of them before and let's just say that did not go well. I'm putting it off until the summer so that I won't have school to worry about, but I'm already incredibly anxious about it. When I went on them I was a robot for three months but I eventually adjusted and learned how to write on them and how to feel a relatively wide breadth of emotion. I guess I always thought I'd take them my entire life, but the truth is that they're so new that no one in the world has really been on them for a long enough time for doctors to say what long-term use will do to me.

I just know I'm terrified of losing everything I've built by going off of them, things that I would never have been able to accomplish had I not had a little chemical help. I find myself swinging into these terrifying lows even on them, where I strangely regret attempting to regulate something so fluid and natural as emotion. When it comes down to it, my brain is diseased! But doesn't that kind of seem like a cop out?

Whatever I guess I'm just trying to say: worst spring break ever. LET'S DRINK.


*For the record I posed this question in jest: as in, I asked if I could set up my next appointment via e-mail so I wouldn't have to go through awkward phone appointment-making, and then he tied even THAT into my fear of human connection, and so I asked, jokingly, "Which came first, the internet or my intimacy issues?" and he responded "I think we know the answer to that." But like, I don't. I have no fucking idea. And who even cares???

Natasha Richardson Didn't Wear a Helmet

Obviously it's a tragedy that she died, I truly hope her family makes it through this traumatic time together, she was a talented actress whose loss will be felt by everyone in the theatrical community, true true true. But come on. She couldn't pay ten dollars for a helmet? Especially since she was a beginner? She took that increased risk of injury when she chose to decline protective headgear.

Helmets aren't totally protective, obviously; if you're going fast enough, they won't protect the contents of your skull too well anyway, and many skiers also note that helmets decrease peripheral vision and have the potential to create false senses of security that lead to potentially dangerous accelerations. All of which is true, but as this Time article points out:

Those claims may well have some truth, but seat belts too may create a false sense of security, yet few people argue the wisdom of wearing them. Helmets may not provide the same level of protection as a seat belt, but in some cases, even inconsistent protection may make all the difference.

All I'm saying is that when you decline a helmet, you decline a safety tool. Richardson should have been better persuaded to wear one, both by those around her as well as by her internal sense of reason. I hope that what happened to Richardson at least serves as both a warning and a reminder to others that, regardless of how dorky it looks, you should always wear a helmet--even if you're just riding your BMX to the library or hopping on a skateboard in Union Square.


Friday, March 20, 2009

What Am I Going To Do With My Life?*

*Because I'm home for a few days surrounded by the relics of my long-forgotten childhood, I'm taking the time to of course expound upon the future and self-induce a mini panic attack when I realize that I have to get a real job and start the rest of my life in a year and I don't want to, I don't want to at all, I want to stay in the comfy lap of academia FOREVER.
But here are the options.

1. J-School: I really want to go to J-School. I know it's pretty pointless, and the programs I would consider entering (Berkeley or Columbia, maybe even NYU again) aren't new media savvy enough to satisfy me. Plus even if it was new media centric it would be boring and a repeat of what I already teach myself by reading Mashable. And I don't want to take the two years off they recommend. I kind of just want to keep studying and being at school. I'm a dork and I'm also terrified of this scary thing called the "Real World" as emphasized by recent activities like me having to pay the ConEd and TimeWarner bills, and changing the lightbulbs in my bathroom while standing on a swivel chair, and breaking up with people who treat me like a blowjob machine.

2. Working: This is terrifying to me because by "work" I don't mean "score a totally awesome job writing about tech and social media and life." I mean like, "working at Duane Reade while I try to make enough money to support my freelance career" or "commit inappropriate acts because I was young and needed the money" (c/o emarevee). Not only does the economy blow right now, but Web 2.0 is about to explode in our faces and journalism just had its last, rattling gasp. The irrelevancy of my $200,000 NYU education is just startling.

3. Moving back into my parents' house and helping my sister compose text messages to her crush who has both of his ears pierced and goes to some all-boys Catholic school, while watching my 14 year old dog/love of my life slowly prattle on towards puppy heaven, and then stealing some Klonopin from the bathroom cabinet and falling asleep watching "Jon and Kate Plus Eight."

Wait, all of these options suck.

Ok now I'm freaking out. Help. Please help.


Whew; Now Here's a Music Review

I actually have a brief break at work. Who knows how long this will last, but in the meantime, a brief music review:

Living Thing, the new Peter Bjorn and John album, is really good. Well, some of the songs are really good. "Stay This Way" is a terrific song, the kind of song with whose lyrics I immediately identify (romantic anxiety? Self-doubt? Cheesy lovey-dovey lines that make me swoon in spit of myself? Check, check, for the love of Bjorn, check!) I found myself getting bored at time with the drumbeats-and-vocals pattern they seem to have acquired, but maybe that's your cup of tea. There's still fun to be had on this album; check out "I Want You!" and "Last Night" if you're looking for melody. "All that I want is no more falling," Peter (or whoever sings these songs) moans on the latter track, and the piano background is appreciated if for no other reason than distracting us from the fact that he's sad.

Because here's the thing: Living Thing is not Writer's Block. There's no "Young Folks" here; the band seems to be heading in a darker, sparser, almost hip-hoppy direction (or just plain ol' psychadelia, as in "I'm Losing My Mind"), drifting away from the twee dance-pop that made their previous efforts so enjoyable. Which isn't to say you won't enjoy this record; it just means you'll enjoy it if you enjoy brooding, and there maybe won't be five thousand hipster remixes of any of the tracks. Except maybe the lead single. It's a little "D.A.N.C.E."-y, yes, but it also gets the job done in terms of catchiness and accessibility.

So there you go. Peter Bjorn and John are depressed. Join the club! (Ha.)


Thursday, March 19, 2009

Just Chuggin' Along

-Josh (and special guest not to be confused with Miss Crackle-ackle)

It's Still Spring Break

Even though I'm at work, and the antidepressants I started taking haven't really kicked in yet (they're to be given another week, or something), and it's raining outside, and I just remembered that I actually have quite a bit of homework to do for next week...it's technically spring break, and I'm taking a break from both NYU Local and, um, blogging in general. Sorry.


Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Be Mine

(Screenshots via Revolve Clothing)
Lusting hardcore after this BOULEE dress. The color, the lowcut back! Oh, Revolve Clothing, what you do to my heart, wallet...


Geeking Out

(Image via Mashable)
Mashable pointed me (via Twitter!) this morning to a new Blackberry application I have been desiring for quite some time. Pandora for Blackberry is finally available!

Pandora has been a successful app on the iPhone for awhile now, but us second-tier Bberry users have kind of been getting shafted in the applications department. (I'm sorry, I don't want to lose my Verizon network!) But Pandora for Bberry is amazing.

All you need to do is navigate to http://www.pandora.com/blackberry from your phone, and then download the application. It takes less than a minute. If you already have an account with Pandora, sign in and all of your stations will appear immediately. The sound quality is good (considering you're playing music from your phone), the application is fast-running and the interface is clean and classy.

I listen to Pandora obsessively, particularly at work, so this is kind of a life-changing event for me. It's great for when you're sick of all the music on your iPod, or if you want to just listen to a specific type of music without having to create a playlist. Ok I am a major dork but you guys should check it out.


I Wonder Who's Poked Him

I know it's Wednesday, but it feels like a Monday to me since I was away Monday and home Tuesday (to be fair, I landed at one in the morning). That has nothing to do with anything, except for that I need a pick-me-up. I love Facebook parodies, especially when they're done cleverly, and this one hits the mark. (Best part: "daguerreotypes".)


Tuesday, March 17, 2009


Palm trees, warm weather, Burger King: these are a few of my favorite things...
Well, Florida was wonderful. If you see me in the next couple days, you'll notice that I got pretty sunburned on my nose (and, should things get steamy, a good portion of my midsection).

My aunt lives in Coral Springs: thirty minutes from the beach, about an hour to Miami. We drank daiquiris by the shore and ate on Ocean Drive, right in the middle of Ghetto Spring Break (I think I saw a longtime bouncer at Ruff Club waddlin' down 12th Street, in fact.) But it was sunny and in the mid-seventies every day, and my Aunt Mady is gorgeous so all the guys kept hitting on her and I felt like they were hitting on me, too, by association. And it felt nice.

Anyway, I don't have much else to report because not much else happened. It was very relaxing and needed. Now I'm back in the city and have work tomorrow. Ah, memories!


Whitney Port: Independent Woman

Whitney did something on The City last night that no girl star of a shitty reality show on MTV has done before: she turned down a gorgeous Australian after he muttered those three poignant, empty words-- I love you.

Ms. Port may have caught some major flack for agreeing to her own spinoff set in our beloved New York Shitty, but let us not forget that she was always the most tolerable Hills star, graduated from an elite university, and more or less kept her private life absolutely private up until The City premiered. She may not be THE role model, but she is definitely less hollow and more emotionally resilient than the other vacuous bobbleheads that lithely tap dance across the screen during these godforsaken scripted reality TV dramz that I cannot stop watching.

Let us consider Audrina, Heidi and Lauren (and by consider I mean go read those posts I linked to as they discuss each woman in a feminist context). And now, here is Whitterz, turning down the hottest guy to ever grace The Hills/The City so that she can concentrate on her job, on her life in New York, on not being shamed on national television.

"I lost myself in us," she stated. Her eyes big, wet saucers, her mouth curved in hard determination. And haven't we all felt that way at some point? I mean, honestly, all sarcasm aside: I can't relate to anything on this show and I live in New York. I can't afford to go to the places they go to, I can't afford their outfits or their "jobs." And while there are a bevy of assholey male models, as far as I know there aren't too many good-looking Australians roaming this city. But along, finally, comes relevancy in the final episode: we have all felt the struggle between school/career and man (or, at least, have felt the repercussions of staying up all night, naked, smoking cigarettes in bed with some guy, when you have 9am class the next day), and we have all probably wished we made the decision Whitney did. Because let's face it, if she threw her arms up and said, "You know what, Jay. I do love you. I love you so much that I'm going to quit DvF and go with you on tour" we probably would have all gone, "Ehhh... that's uncomfortably realistic."

But in true "absolutely nothing about this show is real" fashion, Whitney broke out of that pathetic girl mode and proclaimed her independence! She is fierce, she is free, she is unshackled by the bonds of male commitment. She unknowingly became a little feminist-- at least in the context of The City-- and girls everywhere considered quitting their dead-end relationships via AIM.

And then Allie took Adam back and killed it all.


Sunday, March 15, 2009

God Fucking Damn It Stupid Comedic Movies Disappointment Me More Than Even The Most Heartbreaking Guys

Real post from Miami on the way, obviously, but I had to let you know--right now!--that Step Brothers, that 2008 Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly actin' doofy screwball flick, fucking sucked. The trailers made it look hysterical! Ferrell and Reilly are both talented, funny dudes. But I don't know, man, I was stoned so this movie really had everything going for it, but it blew. Reilly and Ferrell aren't spoiled forty somethings; they're middle-aged men with development problems, because they act like retarded orphans. That's the movie. "John C. Reilly is a retarded orphan who wears American Apparel briefs everywhere." The film has its moments, as you'd expect it would, but I was expecting near-Love Guru*-type levels of hilarity...damn. Adam McKay, I hoped for more from you than this. I guess I hoped wrong. What would Pearl have to say about this sad sack of shit you called a movie? Probably "Jldajofejaguhagtfkdsadja," which would be the sound of her vomiting up all her childhood wonder. Step Brothers: wasting my time, ruining children's lives. Nice work, fellas.


*Pre-actually seeing the movie, when it still looked like the last beacon of comedy to me and Jess.

Born an Adult

I hate going out. Anyone who knows me understands that it's a huge feat for me to leave the house after 11pm, because I generally don't have fun/get overwhelmed in large groups and I have this thing where I feel incredibly guilty if I'm awake really late because I know I'm wasting a huge portion of the next day. I thought turning 21 would force me to go out more, and while I suppose it has to some extent, I still pretty much despise it. It's gotten to the point where I will literally get dressed up and start drinking, then decide I'm tired and would rather stay home and read. Even last night, on our vaca in DC, my roommate and I took two metros to go to Adams Morgan, then decided we were tired and after getting hardcore hit on by a southern boy from Mississippi, decided it was time to hit the sack instead. Why am I a 40 year old in a 21 year old's body? It's bizarre.

Actually, I'll tell you why. It's because I used to go out. A lot. At 18 I did the New York club circuit- the music, the drugs, the kissing ass of wannabe NYLON employees. Freshmen year was not your typical college experience: there were no dorm parties, no frat parties, no traditional "let's throw a dinner party" parties. Freshmen year was me and my friends, on a shitton of drugs, going out to exclusive 21+ places until 6 in the morning. It was staying until the club closed and then taking the subway to Brooklyn to continue partying until brunch time. It was adderall and never sleeping and missing class and getting shitty grades and dating a slew of unacceptable men too old and too immature for me. Freshmen year is a blur because all of my friends-- incredibly wonderful and responsible and intelligent people-- all went crazy. Things got completely out of control. Some of us dropped out, some of us took a semester off, some of us learned that we couldn't continue at that rate and slowly adjusted to the idea that college is not all about getting as fucked up as possible. We were young and immature and ridiculous. We had come from the suburbs and we took New York by the neck and we didn't want to let go, no matter what, because we were in this wonderful city and we could, for the first time in our lives, do whatever we wanted. And so we did, we did whatever we wanted for an entire year. We fucked and fucked up and drank and fought and got in trouble and redeemed ourselves.

It was tumultuous but it was also beautiful, for what it was, because we were too naive and young to understand the implications of it all.

And I wouldn't trade it in, but now I'm kind of suffering the consequences of peaking too early. Instead of having a seamless ascent into grownup life where going out is a privilege and not a 4 out of 7 days a week activity, I now kind of see going out as a chore. It used to be see and be seen, drink and get drunk. Now, at 21, the first time I can legally doing all of these things, I'm just completely uninterested.

I'm not sure if this is a bad or a good thing. On the one hand, I'd rather be realizing this now instead of at age 30. But on the other hand, it'd be nice to recapture that carefree attitude I toted freshmen year, so I wouldn't always have to feel like such an old, boring person.

I really should have just made the body of this post "Wow I am lame."


Friday, March 13, 2009

Off to DC

While Josh is soaking up some (much-needed) rays in the M-I-A, I'm off for a 3 day mini-vaca with my roommate to good ol' Washington DC. Kind of a random place to spend break but we're suckers for hot politicos in suits, and my faux-uncle is in Colorado for the week and graciously lent us his townhouse near the Eastern Market to crash at. If you're from DC, or know of any cool places to go in the area, leave a comment! Not sure how much I'll be blogging, but I have the trusty Bberry in tow which means Twittering (I am a TOTAL convert. I will post on this later) and 24/7 e-mail access. God, three full days without school or work. I'm jumping out of my skin. This was sooooo needed. Have a great weekend everyone!


Thursday, March 12, 2009

NYU Local Stuff

I edit NYU Local on Thursdays so generally all my blogging goes on over there instead of here on Thursdays. Here are some of the pieces:

- Beloved Underage Drinking Mecca to Reopen

- Newspapers and Social Media Can be BFFs Afterall

- "Fuck new media," says Columbia J-School Professor


Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Parting Gift

Tomorrow is gonna be a pretty crazy day for me, and then Friday I'm off to Florida! I'll be back Monday night (really, Tuesday morning). I will have my computer with me and I'll try to blog from Miami, but in case I can't, here you go. You're welcome.


Collectively Giggling at The Collective

My friend Will over at The Spurnalist made this video summing up the List of Demands created by NYU's newest student protest group, The Collective. It's fucking hilarious.



New media is winning.





Obama set up a women's issue panel, to be chaired by Valerie Jarrett. Perhaps it's not the sweeping measure women's issues proponents were pining for, but I think it's a huge step forward. Women and girls are minorities with their own sets of problems and issues that deserve to be voiced and discussed. A whole smattering comes to mind right away: body image/eating disorders, sexism in the work place, rape, abuse, etc. While he may have pulled that whole "JK about the birth control" thing with the stimulus package, it's good to know our pres is looking out for the interests of women.



"The word “newspaper” will take on a different meaning, like “record album,” or “TV show.” It won’t go away, and it will continue to describe some of the most hallowed brand names in the world. Social media will play a big part in that transformation. As the dynamics of our society change, as institutions go public or private, or disappear entirely, the need to report these events in a responsible manner will be even more critical. Social journalism is more than a buzzword, it’s the way social media will save the industry."

-Woody Lewis, "10 Ways Newspapers are Using Social Media to Save the Industry"

What We Talk About When We Talk About Queefing

AIM IM with ******** 3/11/09 12:10 PM

"Someone" is at work.

Josh Becker

Josh Becker

Josh Becker

Josh Becker
lol sorry


Josh Becker

i forgot


now that's in my history



Josh Becker


Josh Becker

that being said i wonder why steam would come out of your vagina

12:26 PM


somethings probably not right

Josh Becker

unless she's just queefing

Josh Becker

but idk if that releases any gases or if it's just like pfffft


but like...steam


queefs are just like air


god i shouldn't be typing this

Josh Becker

LOL how often do you queef

Josh Becker

are u proud when u do it?

Josh Becker

is it like how bros have farting contests?

Josh Becker

is queefing cathartic?

Josh Becker

"to queef or not to queef, that is the pfffft"




i mean it's like an inevitability of sex

Josh Becker

well i'm not exactly a maestro with the vagina so i'd have no idea

Josh Becker

i just like



Josh Becker



its just when air gets pushed in or out or something


i don't knowww ok i should stop talking bout this right now

Josh Becker

"I queef, therefore I am"


and delete these logs

Josh Becker

LOL i'm blogging this

Josh Becker

is it okay if i call you *real name*

Josh Becker

or just "someone"

Josh Becker

"sir queefs a lot," if u will


i'd prefer "someone"



I can't believe this happened. I'm very close to shutting down my Twitter. Ew ew ew.


Tuesday, March 10, 2009

LolSam Waxes Philosophic on Friends in the Internet Age

Very interesting little think piece. Check it out.


American Bitch

(As always, click for bigger.)

So I was looking over which classes I still need to take to fulfill my English major. One of them is a Critical Theory class, which, ew. Another one is American Literature, which I've put off for the past three years because the only thing I hate more than colonial-era American literature is the idea of going to class at 9:30 am to listen to someone lecture about colonial-era American literature.

But I'm just gonna have to suck it up and take the class and do my best to not fail out, because that's the way the world works. When I register for classes in a few weeks--on 4/20, actually--I will have to sign myself up for not only The Worst Class Ever but also a recitation. And hey, look at that, all the recitations are on Friday. Hooray! This class gets better and better.


P.S. If you are a TA for this class or even the professor, don't hate me. It's not you, it's Walt fucking Whitman.


This is a fun little game upon which I Stumbled. It takes a few tries to get the hang of it, but it's addictive. My personal best (so far) is a little over thirteen seconds.


"You will damage your credibility and reduce your chances of getting to where you want to go (and should go) based on your great talents." - My Father

I got an interesting e-mail from my father this morning. It was peppered with many “I love you’s” and “You are so talented,” but its main message was a warning: I’m not going to get a job if I continue to blog about vibrators, sex, etc.

My automatic knee-jerk reaction was to scream at him (via CAPS!) for reading my blog when he is (as per our agreement) not supposed to, then claim that I do not want to work for any company that finds discussing something as natural as sex disturbing. But I guess the truth is that the world is more prudish than those I’m surrounded by in this liberal little Manhattan enclave lead me to believe, and there is some legitimacy to his concerns.

Self-censoring has always been one of those things I’ve grappled with. People who interview Josh and I frequently ask, “How do you know where the line is between sharing and TMI?” We never have a good answer to that question, and in fact generally mumble something about just “intrinsically” knowing. The truth is that we’re still learning. Most of us are. This is the first time anyone has ever had to deal with a situation like this. In 20 years I’m sure it’ll be nearly impossible to refuse to hire someone who has disclosed personal details about their lives online, as by 2030 I’m assuming everyone will just post naked pictures of themselves with captions like “What I’m wearing today!—Nothing ;)” and then link to them on TwitterSpaceBook.

I believe my Dad has always entertained fantasies of me parlaying my writing into some sort of political journalism career that will allow him to attend the White House press banquet or get him his much-wanted in with pundits like Chris Matthews. But the truth is, I’d rather talk about things like sex, things that are very relatable on a human level—but also hilarious, because I mean, Walgreens selling vibrators is pretty hilarious, right?—than I would talking about say, public policy. Part of me doesn't understand what's so wrong with writing about sex, but the other part knows that the "wrongness" of it simply originates from the way our society works. I can rage and rage and say women should be as sexually free as men, but it doesn't mean anything in the context of societal norms except that I am probably setting myself up to be screwed come hiring time. (What a sad, unfortunate fact)

I guess I’m trying to navigate what is appropriate and what is inappropriate. Before, at 19, I would have claimed that nothing is inappropriate and I am only being honest. But I guess my parents are trying to teach me that there is a limit to the amount of honesty you should put out there. I’m conflicted over this. My desire to write has always stemmed from a place of wanting to communicate the ways in which the world impacts me from an incredibly forthright and honest standpoint. I don’t want to self-censor myself, but I don’t want to fuck up opportunities that could arise. It’s a slippery slope.

I also received another interesting e-mail from a friend asking if he could give certain details of my personal life to some of his editors. My answer was, verbatim:“If you do this, I will destroy you.”

It’s a control thing. I can write about vibrators, and I feel comfortable doing so because I’m not actually talking about my sex life; I’m talking about sex in general. I have never mentioned the names of people I’ve been with, or specific things I’ve done, because those, I know, are private. There is a definitive line there, and I want to be able to monitor the kind of information concerning my personal life that gets disseminated. As the internet continues to become a veritable wild west free for all, that monitoring becomes more difficult. I guess I just don’t want to contribute to the potential pot of slanderous material that could be published about me. I don’t want people to be able to Google me and find out who I was dating. God, why would people even care about something like that? I am fucking boring. But unfortunately (and here comes the feminism), there is a tendency in the media to focus primarily on a woman's sexuality than there is on her actual talent. Yeah yeah, no blowjobs for bylines: I want to be judged by whatever talent I have and not for who I’ve slept with. Unfortunately I think that’s kind of a difficult thing to escape in some ways when looking to work in the media world. Somehow (a.k.a. via the internet) everything has become everyone’s business. Culture blogs with writer personality like J&J contribute to this bevy of personal factoids that stir the pot. But at least within the confines of these pages we have the ability to control what you know and what you don’t know about us.

These are the kinds of issues millennials will have to grapple with and navigate as we graduate and look for serious careers. My father was right in many regards, and frankly I’m proud of myself for not just ignoring his advice and shooting back a “Screw you for reading my blog when you’re not supposed to!” e-mail. God, I am growing up. I mean, isn’t that what this is all about? I don’t have the same license to casually fuck up anymore. If I want to be taken seriously as a writer, I have to market my brand in the way I want it to be consumed. It’s a terrifying thought, and one that I’m sure many young bloggers are struggling with. Will our oversharing bite us in the ass, or will it serve to showcase our writing in an honest and relatable way? Only time will tell, I guess. But a little self-censoring might not be such a bad thing from now on.


This is a Video of My NYU Local Editor Playing the Ukulele


Monday, March 9, 2009


Media Technology and Society
An inquiry into the interplay of technology and contemporary society. Examines the ways in which technologies-mechanical, electronic, analog, and digital-have shaped and complicated our culture and society.

Though I'm sure as with most NYU classes it'll sound good on paper and then you'll get there and the professor will be a total douchebag, or you'll learn about applications you've been using since the 7th grade, or your ex-boyfriend will be sitting next to you. Whatevs.


Sorry, no Plan B... but here! Have this pocket rocket!

So I'm all for a good sex toy, but wtf is Walgreens doing selling vibrators? I'm so confused. This is the pharmacy I try to avoid because they treat customers in need of Plan B so obnoxiously, and in some cases, refuse to sell it even though it's a legal and necessary over the counter drug (as I'm sure many of us girls can unfortunately attest to.) But now they decide all of a sudden they're down with sexual health and masturbation, despite the fact that their attitudes around the sale of Plan B stem from a highly religious (read: Christian) place? Isn't, um, masturbation a sin? Especially with the freakin Rabbit??

Props to Walgreens, I guess, for finding a PR-friendly way to discard their puritanism. It would be nice to have a 24 hour sex toy distributor for those horrible and ill-timed occasions your vib decides to murmur its final, pathetic bzzzzzz.

It is kind of hypocritical, though, since both masturbation and Plan B keep you from getting pregnant. If the outcome's the same, what's the real difference anyway? I mean, isn't jerking off into a tissue killing potential babies too? Alright I'll stop there.


Letters and Numbers and Caffeine

Hello readers!

I have not been updating the blog as of late; Jess and I have both been supremely busy, more so than usual, and she knows how to manage her time better than I do.

But I've been doing well. My new internship keeps me busy both at the office and throughout the rest of the week, but it's all about blog research and digital marketing and new media and all that good stuff. One day the machines will enslave the human race and take over the world, but until that day comes, it's fun to do Official Office Research on Myspace. What can I say.

Also, um, midterms hit me like a truck, like a truck filled with the syllabi I've ignored for the past two months. All I have left to do is finish reading The Mixquiahuala Letters, a wonderful epistolary novel, the kind of book in which I'd underline every other sentence, if I did that sort of thing. Well, there's also this really important paper due on Thursday, which I have not started thinking about. Time management!

In case you read NYU Local and wonder where the hell I've been, well, blame a mix of lazy journalism (my fault) and editorial miscommunication (not entirely my fault), but I'll be back to a regular posting schedule this week. And then I go to Miami for a four-day fin de semana with my lovely Aunt Mady, who has a Facebook and looks fifteen years less than her actual age.

All of which is to say: don't cry for me, Jess & Josh fans--the truth is I never left you. Except I kind of did. And I'll only be posting sporadically, probably until I return from Florida.

Go to sleep or I'll kill you.


Alexander McQueen for Target: Meh

One of the only downsides of living in Manhattan is that there is no Target in close-range to hit up; trips to the megastore are one of the few pleasures reserved for suburban homecoming. As a broke college student, I voraciously consume the affordable GO International designer lines the discount store runs. My favorite so far was probably the Erin Fetherston one, but the Rogan Gregory one was um, awful. Alexander McQueen recently launched a line, and to be honest, I'm really not that impressed. The only thing I would consider purchasing is this (pictured above), but with a price tag of $44.95, I will probably stick to scouring ShopBop for real designer finds at lesser prices.


Ultimate Gossip Girl Summit

Lily Q, Will, Jacob and I attended the Ultimate Gossip Girl Summit on Saturday night. Here's the article I wrote about it for NYU Local. We met Dorota!


Sunday, March 8, 2009

Blackberries Are Amazing

When I got a Blackberry I became terrified that I would become one of those people with one foot permanently planted in the real world and the other firmly in Blackberry world. That is true. That is so, so fucking true. My friends complain that I am not "there" when I am there because physically my body and my voice and my presence exist, but my fingers are furiously givin' the old BB a good working over. It's obnoxious. I'm trying to wean myself off of it, ok? I'm sorry, ok? Ok.

But last night I was drunk on my roof with some lovely folks and I accidentally um, dropped my Blackberry off the roof and it fell two stories and smashed into 3 pieces? After squealing and fighting back tears and breaking out onto the precipice of Impending Hyperventilation, I climbed down the ladder, reassembled it, turned it on and waited for a breathless 5 minutes to discover if I was going to have to create one of those incredibly obnoxious "lolz i need ur #s" Facebook Groups.

BUT O-M-G. I dropped my Blackberry probably about 25 feet onto a hard surface and it... survived. It's not even cracked or scratched. And it wasn't in a case. This is a goddamn miracle. GET A BBERRY THEY ARE SO DURABLE, much moreso than the iPhone which is admittedly cooler than a Bberry in every other regard. Ha now that I typed this I'm kind of assuring an ex post facto malfunction but whatevs.


Words to Make You Feel Sad/Happy/Nostalgic Because It's Sunday

On my previous post about the internet and poetry, J&J reader Sharon Clark gave me the heads-up on some new poets whose work I should check out. I perused them, but none gripped my rib cage and made me go "oooohhhh" quite like Jenny Boully. Click the link for a number of poems that will give you fever; they are so lovely.


I Am Here, Or Am I?


I know that I originally said I would never get Twitter, that it was too narcissistic and self-indulgent and immediate. So I buckled, but whatever, I never claimed to have these sturdy moral values. What I'm trying to say is that the cell phone application Google Latitudes, along with the slew of other location-aware software available, freaks me the fuck out.

I frequently lie about my whereabouts, perhaps out of habit developed in high school. I would never, ever want to voluntarily implement GPS on my phone so that my friends could know where I am. And that's only if I used it honestly. You can also change your location so that you'll show up on the map in a place you actually aren't. Bizarre? Yeah. But think of the possibilities that crop up for law enforcement with all these newfangled gadgetywhatsits. Luckily Google has decided to not have your locations stored, and instead to have each new one overwrite the last. That way the police can't subpeona your phone records and find out if you're lying about your whereabouts when interrogating you for a crime.

Having Latitudes would have been a veritable nightmare in high school, though I suppose if you learned how to manipulate it you could always have that little red dot above the library while you were, say, fucking your high school boyfriend in the back of your parents' car? (ahem)


Saturday, March 7, 2009

Our Friends Are So Fashion

Dhani Mau, my roommate and one of my best friends since freshman year, has been writing for The Supermelon for a while. She recently wrote a recap of the best of new fashion for Fall 2009. Read it, live it, wear it! Or maybe just find it on sale at some vintage store in Brooklyn.


Thursday, March 5, 2009

"At least you're getting fodder for writing" - My Mother (Always the optimist)

So. I did an experiment for you guys and you didn't even know it. I wanted to test my "there are no nice guys in New York" theory so I wrote this and then hung out with a nice guy for a week. He was really nice. He was southern and had dreams of law school and apologized when he was wrong. It was a shock to see. I couldn't look him in the eye so I would always make scrunch-faces when he tried to do so. I curled my body up in these contorted, hardened shapes because I thought that would keep him out. But in just one week my guard fell because OMG he was so nice and OMG I'm only 21 I should be less jaded.

Lol, jk. I'm still jaded. Um... tremendously so. Get this: there are no nice dudes in New York. They might pretend to be nice but soon they will get scrunch-face too when you try to look them in the eye and then some kind of panic alarm will go off in your brain and soon you'll get an e-mail that's like "I hope we can be friends." (We can't) At least this cultivated my self-loathing some more. That was an area I was kind of lacking before. I think that's why I was dating mean guys: cuz I love myself so much. But then I dated a nice guy and he was kind of a jerk and I got the chance to reinstate my self-loathing. I knew some good would come from this.

But seriously there are no nice guys in New York. If you have dreams of kissing romantically at Chelsea Piers or holding hands beneath the table at Cafeteria, you are probably a douche bag, but you are also a dumbass because it's not going to happen.

Just some truth for you. You can thank me for doing the experiment in the name of J&J by allowing me to stew in my own self-pity for awhile (and getting blackout drunk) without calling it out in the comments.