Sexy Tolstoy.

I read a lot as a kid. For quite some time when I was growing up my parents decided not to keep a television in the house, so until the age of twelve my brother and I spent our free time reading and tumbling around in the grass, and doing all activities Tom and Huck-esque. Even after my family purchased a unit, my brother and I were limited to only a couple of hours of viewing time on the weekends. Weekdays were strictly off-limits. For my parents—because they’re mean—the argument that I needed to be kept up to date on something called ‘Beverly Hills, 90210’ was never a compelling enough reason to compromise their principles.

Just kidding, I love my parents. 

In fact, I’ve come to appreciate and respect their decision, even though I abhorred it as a child. To this day I still don’t know what the hell ‘Blossom’ was about. Yet, to be honest, it’s never occurred to me to Google it. BUT STILL: THESE SHOWS COULD HAVE SERVED AS INVALUABLE GUIDES WHEN NAVIGATING THE TREACHEROUS WATERS OF THE PUBLIC EDUCATION SCHOOL SYSTEM. I watched ‘My So-Called Life’ on Netflix about a year ago and thought to myself, “Damn, Claire Danes was on some emo SHIT,” which would have been a useful reference on how to deal with high school drama. Except my high school drama was mostly comprised of who I was carpooling with. Speaking of high school, don’t even get me started on ‘Dawson’s Creek’. Jesus. Talk about ostracization. That little show called ‘Friends’? I never knew all those episode references until Netflix added the series to its roster this past January. But by then I was already living in New York, and every time I saw Monica and Rachel’s apartment I had to fight the urge to throw my laptop out the window of mine. You don’t even want to know what happens when I watch ‘Sex and the City’.

But as a result I learned to recognize and appreciate good writing. Much of my free time was also dedicated to fulfilling creative projects. The influence of those activities inevitably pushed me in the direction of the life course I’m on now. Being on the other side of it all, I understand that not having a television as a child was enriching in ways I couldn’t have imagined. And stuff like that and whatever.

“Not to mention, Daniela: even though this environment sounds like it probably made you the most pop culturally out-of-touch kid in the world—therefore explaining quite a lot about the development of your adult character—it most likely staved off the risk of a brain-eating technological evil from ever ruling autonomous in your life, right?” Well, my dears, have you heard of something called Amazon Prime, Hulu, HBONow, or Netflix? Yes? Then congratulations, you just answered your own question.

AND HERE I AM PRETENDING TO BE NONCHALANT. J. Crew chambray tunic. Anthropologie pants that are two sizes too big because I bought them on sale and was like, “Welp, I guess I’ll own harem pants now.” Uniqlo belt.

In this photo I wanted to show you all how wide my pants are, and to prove that I’m not wearing socks. That whiteness is, in fact, my flesh. That’s what happens when you haven’t seen the sun for five out of the seven years you’ve lived in New York.

Magazine shots in order from left to right:

1. Glamour/InStyle

2. Vogue/Harper’s Bazaar/Elle

3. Maxim

The problem with discovering—at work nonetheless—that you have one less button on your top than you believed, is that in order to maintain a modest appearance you must go around with your hand over your chest, pretending that you are touched by everyone and everything you see. It’s dumb.

And that’s about it. So remember, guys:

Don’t worry: I want to slap me, too.