A Little Humor
I offered my land -lord one of my limbs this month instead of paying rent. It’s Monday now, I still have my left leg, but my bank account is suffering a tad as I do live alone in Chelsea. This month has been a month of realizations. I believe they started on New Years Eve, as I sat with a fashion magazine editor friend in the East Village, wearing a vintage chinchilla fur, a silver Dolce&Gabanna slip, not slip dress, slip, and platform red polka dot Miu Miu pumps. My friend asked if I got dressed channeling Kate Moss, but what she really meant, and we both knew, was the most proper way of telling me I was barley clothed and looked like a baby prostitute. We continued to sip our Manhattans, as a random man passed by exuberantly and held his glass to mine provoking cheers! As our glasses clinked I whispered in her ear, “ I have no fu@king clue that that was.” The night progressed, but this bizarre phenomenon of people coming up and pretending like we knew each other was continuous. It was then I had my first realization. I’m a girl that likes to wear a slip not a dress, I like dark greening velvet-alluring sofas, and wallpapering with Kate Mosses tits on it in my dining room. I like dead animal skulls, displayed animal skulls on my mantel, just cause! Crystals, tulle, and glitter are almost orgasmic words, not to mention a probably unhealthy obsession with anything shiny or that reads; shoe department. It was in this moment, she and I both realized, that fantasy life is real, for someone, and I was already half way there with my clan of fake glass clinking friends, my Pretty Woman outfit, and a beautiful man by my side. It Attainable.
Fast-forwarding to the next day.
My silver slip was dangled on a dining room chair with streaks of red wine splattered down the back, as my crystal earrings hung precariously out of my platinum Wang clutch somewhere on the counter. My boyfriend and houseguest were discussing how just because I enjoy a nice bottle of wine, alone, from time to time, does not mean I’m an alcoholic. He was convinced that my bi weekly solo drinking dance parties were a cry for help, when in reality I have more fun at home dancing to the Ciara he wont blast in the clubs as a DJ. Regardless, in this moment my fabulous fantasies of hosting candle lit dinner parties, and an eccentrically decorated dream pad seemed lives away, as I laid incapacitated and hung over on New Years Day. All of the previous nights realizations now scattered memories in-between catnaps and whole roasted chicken snacks in bed.
It took about a week for my brain to fully recover, so I made it a habit to just send pictures to people instead of texts.
The first text was this picture of the new men’s wear McQueen to my editor friend. The conversation went a little something like this:
