Girls Girls Girls?

What’s it like being a chick in the Big Apple? Sex and the City made a great effort to tackle this complicated question some fifteen years ago now. More recently, Girls has taken up the cause. However, if you’ve seen both of those shows and you still don’t feel like you’ve got enough info about what life is like as a vagina-clad human being living in NYC, then you should check out the e-book GIRLS?, recently published by Thought Catalog.

GIRLS? is a collection of thirteen funny, scary, sexy and strange essays from thirteen of New York’s great lady writers, all telling tales of life in the city. The lovely lady contributors include: Marie Calloway, Rachel Rabbit White, Liz Colville, Leigh Alexander, Chloe Caldwell, Molly Oswaks, Karina Briski, Mila Jaroniec, Claire Mott aka No Sex City, Eudora Peterson, Stephanie White, Stephanie Georgopulos, and (most importantly) ME!

Below is an except from my essay:

“She was chugging a Diet Coke and plucking her eyebrows, her pupils dilated to the appropriate size of someone on 20mg of Adderall. I sat staring at her thoughtfully, stroking my chin for dramatic effect. Could I actually go through with it?, I silently pondered. I thought about what my mother would think if she ever found out. But then I got distracted and started thinking about how cool Catherine Deneuve’s hair looks in Belle Du Jour and considered whether I could pull off a similar style. Then I daydreamed abstractly about that scene in True Romance where Patricia Arquette and Christian Slater are wrapped in blankets, sitting in front of that billboard–she’s crying, confessing to him that she’s a call girl, and he’s being his sweet, easygoing self and telling her he doesn’t care, and then they say “I love you” for the first time. God… I love that movie.”

You can find the e-book HERE!

Gurl Crushes

1. Stacey Mark

I have a total girl crush on the NYC photographer Stacey Mark, which you may have already gathered from my frequent use of her photographs in recent posts. What I love about Stacey’s images is that they’re incredibly sexy, but at the same time remain so subtle and pure and feminine. They’re like photos from a 70s issue of Playboy, except dreamier and more cinematic. And she makes girls with all sorts of body types look fucking amazing! And Stacey is cool in person too: she has a really monotone, Daria-style voice, super long brown hair, and has mastered the comfy-chic tomboy thing that Charlotte Gainsbourg and Juliette Lewis do so well and I always wish I could do better. Sometimes Stacey and I hang out and chain smoke and talk about how stupid boys are, and the whole scene makes me feel like I’m the star of an alt teen movie in 1997.

Stacey shoots for mags like Purple, Oyster, Vice, Self Service, and Jacques. She actually took some pics of me for Purple, some of which you can see below, and we also made a video together.


2. Girl Crisis

If you’re hungover or on a comedown, or if you’re going through a breakup or your cat just died or if you failed a test, or if you’re just casually feeling suicidal, don’t worry, I have the perfect thing to cheer you up! Girl Crisis is an all-girl, indie supergroup from New York who perform covers of famous songs in alt living rooms and film it with a Super 8 camera. In the past they’ve covered artists like Nirvana, Leonard Cohen and (yes!) Ace of Base. I swear, these Girl Crisis videos are a saving grace whenever I’m feeling blue. They perfectly satisfy that whole nostalgic, teenage, Virgin Suicides, oh-it’s-so-hard-being-a-girl thing that sometimes you just need to give in and indulge, especially if you’re having a particularly angsty period week. Girls in the band include members of Chairlift, Au Revoir Simone, Class Actress and Apache Beat. Wistful sigh…

This Week in Pictures

Hey! So I realize I have not been posting as often as usual this past month or so. I suppose I have been “busy”, although I hate it when people say that, it’s so obnoxious. Anyway, to update you, I was recently in LA and Mexico shooting a short film for UK Channel 4, and you can see some photos from the trip below. I don’t want to give too much of the storyline away as of yet, but I will say that at one point I kissed a 9 year old in a Mexican strip club (#casual). I will post the film later this summer. I also went on tour with Blood Orange for a week, on his American tour supporting Florence and the Machine. I imagined being on tour would be very “cool” and “rock n’ roll”, however it actually just involves sitting in a car for millions of hours at a time, listening to talk radio with guys who haven’t showered in weeks, and eating food out of foil bags from truck stops. Unglamorous. Although we did go to a strip club in Vegas, which I suppose made it all worth it. Some pics from the trip are posted below too. I’m also making a tour diary video which I will post once I get around to editing it. Editing it hard for me because my laptop is vintage and can’t even handle opening Microsoft Word without flashing up that nightmarish rainbow pinwheel from hell for at least three minutes. I wish I was rich. I know people say that money can’t buy you happiness, but I feel like surely it at least removes the sadness that comes from not having it. Right? I wouldn’t know.

I hate everything. My phone can’t go on the internet.

Here are some photos of my life, carefully curated to make it seem more exciting and carefree than it actually is.


I wrote this essay about roommates for the current issue of the beautiful interiors magazine, Apartamento. The photos are of me in mi apartamento, taken by Sandy Kim.

When I moved to New York in the summer of 2010 I didn’t have any friends. I couldn’t afford my own apartment, so I made the novice mistake of moving in with a random stranger I met on Craigslist. You hear horror stories about Craigslist roommates–OCD, junkies, money scammers, rapists–but still, I thought, How bad could it be?

Mike was in his mid thirties with a big beer belly, permanent armpit stains, and the general attitude and appearance of a someone who hasn’t gotten a blow-job in over a decade. He would burp and fart so loud that it would wake me from my sleep almost every night. To add to his cliched ‘bad roommate’ persona, he was a hoarder. Every available space of the apartment was crammed with dusty knickknacks, books with titles like Why We Get Fat, light-up Santa Clause statues that no longer lit up–the list goes on. The weirdest thing, though, was that for the most part Mike refused to speak to me, instead choosing to communicate solely through passive aggressive notes he would write in washable marker on the bathroom mirror. Things like, “DID SOMEONE USE MY COMB!?” (And by “someone” I assume he meant me, as we were the only two people living in the house.) I became so terrified of the awkwardness of running into him in the hallway that if I knew he was home, instead of going to the bathroom, I would pee into a plastic cup and throw it out the window. I only ever saw him clean once; I came home late one night to find him on all fours, manically scrubbed the bathtub with bleach. I was convinced he’d killed someone.

That apartment only cost me $420 a month–that’s pretty insane, even for Bushwick–but still, it wasn’t worth it. I needed to get out. So when my friend Amelia split up with her girlfriend and offered to let me live in a section of her living room for a small portion of the rent, I gladly accepted. Sure, I wouldn’t have a “real” room, and instead of actual walls my living space would be defined by sheets slung over a makeshift clothes rail, but still, it would be better than peeing out the window.

It’s a unique form of intimacy that arises, living so closely with someone like we do. In New York, unless you’re loaded, you generally have to resign to living in a glorified shoebox. Having a roommate becomes like being in a relationship, except without the fucking.

Because of the open-plan layout of our house, there is essentially zero privacy. When I’m in my bed and Amelia is in hers, we can hear each other breathing. We hear every phone call the other makes–the lies we tell our moms, the excuses we make to our bosses. When Amelia has sex, I can literally hear the sound of her fingers entering her lover’s vagina. Last night, I heard the girl in her bed whisper, “You fuck me better than my husband.” I miss nothing. And Amelia, in turn, has been witness to the many times I’ve screamed and cried and came and puked. We split the price of toilet paper, we pull clumps of each other’s hair out of the drain, we make salads, we share boxes of tampons. Once, when the guy I was sleeping with refused to go down on me (he claimed that my vagina at the time tasted “potent” and that the smell of my cunt “put him off”), Amelia offered to lick my fingers after they’d been inside me to judge how mine compared to the plethora of vaginas she’d previously sampled. “How thoughtful!,” I replied. Really, what more could you ask of a roommate than that?