I was sitting on my couch the other night, having wine for dinner because I didn’t feel like cooking, when suddenly it hit me: “Man, what a struggle infested life I live. And wow do I love it.”
All that glamour and shit—who has the time or energy? A lot of people, actually, but I am not one of them. Do you brush or wash your hair everyday? Do you remember to eat? Do you go to bed at 11pm and actually fall asleep at 11pm, instead of staying up an additional three hours under the sheets to watch Gilmore Girls, because you missed that boat in the early 2000s due to strict TV-watching household rules, and have always resented it? Yes? You do all those things?
And are you now asking if I’m sweeping basic hygiene, eating, and a respectable amount of sleep under the category of “glamour and shit”? You betcha.
Truly, though . . . my life isn’t anywhere near struggle-infested. An example of the laughable struggle I'm plagued with is one where I'm forced to choose between staying home to drink a $5 bottle of wine alone in peace, instead of a $15+ LES/Village cocktail—of which nearly half will inevitably be spilled when some girl’s purse knocks into it—or if I do venture out, deciding to willingly tack on an extra hour and a half of travel time at 3am by taking the subway home, instead of a surge-priced Uber. Like, come on.
We pick up a lot of weird, arbitrary rules about how to go about our lives from people who are not us, and know nothing about our experiences—have you noticed that? Not to say I’m closed off to suggestions or advice, but I’m definitely not into being told there’s something incorrect about the way I live, particularly if I enjoy it, or if aspects of it are beyond my control: That I most definitely do not have time for.
Just like I don't have time for anyone telling me I should sleep instead of staying up to 2am to find out what happens with this Dean-Jess situation, because excuse me very much, but I'm like a bajillion years behind on that AND I NEED TO KNOW.
Zara crop top; H&M skirt; Uniqlo socks; Prabal Gurung for Target flats; Tucum necklace; Vintage belt
And here I am feigning warmth, because apparently functioning heat in my apartment was optional.
POWER THROUGH IT!!! HUZZAH!!!
Pretending to be model-y/artsy, but really just listening for pipes that sound like they're about to burst, as an indication the radiator is working.
So maybe if I take my hair like this . . . and wrap it around my neck like this . . . it's like my own hand knit scarf. My own human hair, hand knit scarf. My own dirty, dry shampoo infused, human hair, hand knit scarf. Regrets about not buying that space heater in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS, AN ARCTIC