We are all made of stars because science said so. And Moby.

Every morning I ride the train with people I don’t know, and will probably never know. Yet I think about them: who they are, what their life is like, do they have a cat, do they wish they had a dog instead, are they trying to remember if they put deodorant on, are they regretting not taking a shower, are they going on an extreme adventure and why. 

Most of the passengers get off at Union Square, dispersing to jobs, school, appointments, stores, or other trains. But for about ten minutes of the day we all head in the same general direction, with the same general destination of Manhattan. Sometimes I wonder if the person I’m looking at across the subway pole is headed where he or she wants to be; I wonder if they're happy with where they're going. I’m sure most of the time the answer is no. New York both gives birth to and executes dreams. I don’t know what the hell Alicia Keys was smoking when she sang, “There’s nothing you can’t do,” because I can think of about fifty things I can’t do here, off the top of my head, quite easily. That is often the heartbreak of this city: to be surrounded by magnificence so far removed. 

In fact, New York can beat me into such a pulp that the victory of getting a seat on my commute instantly makes me think, “FINALLY: REDEMPTION.” Until the person I’m sitting next to begins primping herself. Or rehearsing his latest single very loudly. Or lets her head fall onto my shoulder to catch a quick snooze. And when this happens I’ll clench my fists and start breathing so furiously it sounds like there’s a stovepipe in my throat, and I'll begin rage muttering to the subway gods, “DON’T THEY KNOW I’M TRYING TO DO THINGS HERE? DON’T THEY KNOW I HAVE GOALS? THAT I’M TRYING TO BE SOMEONE?”

But don’t I know that the primping girl is on her way to her second interview that morning? Or that the songbird guy is on his way to record a demo before his shift starts? Or that the sleepyhead woman is on her way back to work after four hours of sleep and two jobs? Don’t I know?

Everyone has that Facebook friend who posts inspirational quotes that look like they were typewritten, xeroxed, and scanned into the computer, and every once in a while that Facebook friend is me. Which means that one day, a long time ago, I posted something that said this:

"The iron in our blood was formed in stars, billions of years ago, trillions of miles away." 

Apparently it’s a quote from a bench in Dallas. 

Sometimes when I see a celebrity—or as we call them, a star—on the street, I’m taken aback by how ordinary they look. Or, ordinary in the sense that they are a unique human being in the world. That they, also, are plagued by blemishes, wrinkles, gray hair, under-eye bags, fat, etcetera, etcetera. In other words, sometimes I’m taken aback by how much they look like me. That we are both made of skin, flesh, and bone; that our blood was formed by the same stars, billions of years ago, trillions of miles away. It’s a welcome sense of shock. I can consider more easily, then, that perhaps they also once took gratification in the achievement of getting a train seat on a morning commute, as they were on their way to do things, for the goals they had, while they were trying to be someone. 

So you're tired and want to give up, eh?

That's cool, I get it, but maybe don't do that just yet.

Maybe smile and shine on.

Sometimes when you're beaten, and tired, and down for the count, is when inspiration strikes.


For real I had a dream like this once.

It was. And then I woke up and started designing stuff.

Then you sit back and realize, "Wait: I got this."

And you do.

Zara blazer, boots, and jumpsuit. H&M collar.

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

Don't worry about Moby, he's just a little starstruck by your presence.

On behalf of being basic.

One of the things I hate most is when girls refer to each other as "basic bitches," because ninety-nine percent of the time a lot of the qualities that categorize a girl as a "basic bitch" can also be found in me.

So let me go ahead and clear up some things. 

UGGs are comfortable. I straight up roll into work in kinda sorta pajamas, so I'm going to be the last person to sneer at a chick who chooses to go around in a shoe that simulates walking on a cloud. Do you know what kind of women wear heels all day, every day? The ones who take taxis. I have a monthly metrocard, and homies, you better believe that magnetic strip can scarcely read by year's end.

Starbucks is candy. Do you know why sugar is the main ingredient in Starbucks beverages, and not coffee? Because everyone loves sugar. In some form or another, we all crave it. Starbucks was smart and incorporated this into its business model, and "basic bitches" are simply efficient and go straight to the source. Personally I don't like Starbucks—nevertheless, trust that wherever I get my coffee, half of it is saccharin.

Everyone likes being in pictures. I mean, fucking everyone: we enjoy seeing our faces, and moreover, we prefer it when we have control over the image so it represents our best-looking selves. Validation is something all people seek, not because we crave attention, or because we're approval addicts, but because why in the hell would you not want someone to recognize your existence? 

There are many weekends when I do not leave the house, and actually watch content on Netflix for eight hours straight. Go read a book, go to a museum, go to a park, you say? Obviously. Obviously and of course those are all better options. But like many people, I'm usually at my job at least ten hours a day, and then come home to focus on freelance or this blog. Therefore, on weekends the only thing I want to concern myself with is why Don Draper is so persistently disappointing. 

I do not carefully construct my meals with artisanal food products, or try new zany things. Not because I don't want to, but A) I have hella student loans to pay, B) I live alone and the only person who is going to help with everything is me, and C) see above.

We can't all be fashionistas all the time. "Dafuq? Is this not a fashion blog?" I hear you all whisper-asking yourselves. It is. But I opt for it to be a realistic one. The funds, energy, and time typically required for that lifestyle are not always readily available. So many daysfor me at leastit's just jeans, a tee, and sneakers. If that makes me basic, then amen hallelujah and pass the Converse and Levi's.

In the spirit of remaining basic, no fancy stuff this post. JUST LIL' OL ME.

Zara cardigan, jeans, and sneakers. Uniqlo tee. J. Crew belt. Banana Republic silver necklace. African record beads from Etsy.

Yep. Just me.

Just me sitting in these plants.

That's right: Just me sitting in these basic ol' plants.

YEUP, just me hanging around these ol' plants and doing some basic lunges, per usual.

Maybe giving them a little love.


Or not.

Or maybe taking a ride on this basic bike that is not mine.

Or perhaps partaking in my favorite basic activity of all: snapping selfies.



Yes I see the gray hair, don't worry about it.

And that's about it.

Ok I have to go watch Mad Men now.

The Island. Yes, there's a beach. No, Leo is not there. Actually, he might be, who knows.

You know how it goes: you grow up in Texas dreaming of big city life in New York—even though you’re from Houston, the fourth largest city in the country—and make plans for your move after college. 

You get here, you live it up, and everything is fine and dandy until one day it’s just not so fine and dandy. Spring makes an appearance for five minutes and you think to yourself, “Well this is perfect: the cherry blossoms are in full bloom, the weather is ideal, everyone is blissful and happy.” So naturally, it’s not going to last.

Summer rolls in, kicking off stoop-peeing season, and four months of consistently wondering if skin rot occurs from excessive sweat; the reason all of your clothes smell just a little musty from May to August. You install your window unit since the technology of central air hasn’t made it this far north yet, and when you get the electricity bill for the month you make a rule that if anyone touches the window unit again, he or she is sentenced to death. You opt for an electric fan and spend the rest of your summer in a chair, right in front of it.

Then comes fall, and everyone starts talking about apples and pumpkins. There are orchards and fields all over the state, and because New York is full of ambitious people who do things, everyone goes out and takes pictures in them. Except for you. 

Finally, winter arrives. The most heinous of them all. The first sub-thirty degree day hits and you think you can handle it, but once you’ve dealt with January and February, you begin to seriously question if you’ll know warmth again. Every day the sun fails to heat the earth above twenty degrees fahrenheit, it takes a bit of your soul with it when it dips back down into Hades.

All the while you wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, go to the gym, come home, eat dinner, fall asleep fully clothed with every light in your apartment turned on, wake up, turn everything off, fall back asleep, and begin the day anew. Over and over again. But it starts to get easier. You start to “make it.”

And the reason you start to “make it” is because you amass a group of friends—a very solid group. They congratulate you if something good happens. They picket for you if something bad happens. They reach out when you’re sad and ask if you’ve eaten something besides canned tuna for the day. They reach out generally and ask if you’ve eaten something besides canned tuna for the day. They take care of you. Slowly you realize that although you live and work on an island, you are not one, nor do you want to be.

Because these are also the people who didn’t judge you for that Leonardo DiCaprio desktop you installed on your work computer.

Kait commented the other day that the tripod I bought for my daily segment had rendered her obsolete (but in the best possible way).

To which I responded, "HAIL NO." My friends are the ones who light the fire under my ass to get 'er done! Also, all of these cigarettes. 

They support all my little dreams (my friends, not the cigarettes).

And help me launch them into reality.

They make life feel like a bed of roses.

Even when it gets a little thorny.

Every once in a while I'll get stranded, but that's okay.

They'll come to the rescue.

Usually by helping me keep out any toxic thoughts.

And reminding me to get my jacket.

They're my  heroes.

H & M dress, J. Crew pants, Banana Republic shoes, Zara necklace.

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