So like yesterday I was giving a blow job in the fitting room of Rainbow, and after it was over, as I was swallowing to the soundtrack of Demi Lovato’s “Give Your Heart a Break”, I thought, “Wait… I need to figure out a way to make my life less tragic and more glamorous.”
I think a reevaluation of my existence is in order. For example: Why, at 26, do I still refill soy sauce bottles for a living? Why do I live behind a curtain? Why have I never had a phone that can go online? Why haven’t I changed my sheets since I moved into my apartment 13 months ago? Why do I shop at Rainbow?
Last week I drunkenly left my phone in a cab. It wasn’t a smartphone, obviously, but it sort of looked like it could be a smart phone–sort of like a square version of a Blackberry, or a more advanced Tamagotchi or something–which meant it was at least OK enough to use publicly without looking entirely pathetic. But now I’m stuck with this horrible vintage flip phone from hell, and I literally can’t take it out of my bag without everyone within a 20ft radius of me staring at the phone like it’s a bomb or a syringe filled with heroin that I’m preparing to jam into my arm in broad daylight in the middle of the street.
Is there even a point existing if you don’t have an Instagram?!
Not to sound cringy, but I’ve been “recognized” at the Chinese restaurant where I work a few times recently, which you would think would be flattering but is actually awful, because it always happens the same way: I hand them a menu, they look at me sort of weird, they say something like, “Are you that girl from that thing?” and then I say, “Oh… uh, yeah,” and then they make a facial expression which basically says, “Wow, I used to think you were really glamorous and cool but now I just think you’re a tragic noodle slave.” And then I spend the next ten minutes wiping up the soy sauce they spilled everywhere.
Is it possible to be glamorous and poor? I recently had a dream where I was really rich and famous and living in a glitter palace, and then suddenly all of my friends stormed into the room and surrounded me Intervention-style, and they were chanting, “You are a glamor addict! We’re taking you away to glamor rehab!” And then they brought me to glamor rehab where all the walls were painted beige and there were no party photographers or street style bloggers anywhere and no guest lists or VIP areas to be found for miles. My dream-self was traumatized. And then I woke up sweating and couldn’t decide whether it had been a dream or a nightmare.
But moving on, please don’t forget that I’m selling Slutever T-shirts! You can see the shirt being worn by me in the photo above, and being modeled by the hot/brilliant Hamilton Morris below (who, by the way, someone yesterday Tweeted was “too cool” for me–fucking bitch can s my d).p.s. If you relate to this post and are also on a downward spiral, please remember that a couple weeks ago I wrote a how-to guide of how to be tragic IN STYLE.