Joran van der Sloot Got Married, You’re Still Single

 imageJoran van der Sloot tied the knot, and this time, it wasn’t around some young woman’s neck! Meanwhile, you’re still single and alone, with no romantic prospects anywhere on the horizon. At least you have your freedom, right? Your suffocatingly lonely freedom.

Yesterday, while America was busy celebrating it’s independence and you were watching a whimsical display of fireworks alone, Joran van der Sloot got married to Leidy Figueroa, a 24-year old woman from Peru. She’s also carrying his baby (sidenote: why are murderers allowed to procreate?). Those are two goals many people hope to achieve in their lives, and an out of shape murderer beat you to it. Enjoy that thought while nursing your hangover with cold baked beans and day old hot dogs. Life, you’re doing it all wrong!                                  

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If you’ve been living with your head stuck in the ground for the past decade (which could explain why you’re still single), Joran van der Sloot is the Dutch guy convicted of murdering Stephany Tatiana Flores Ramírez in Lima, Peru in 2010. He’s also the guy presumed to have murdered Natalee Holloway in Aruba back in 2005. And he’s most definitely a guy you would regret sitting next to on the subway because he looks frightening and probably smells like herring. How do I know? Because I’m an American who did a quick Google search and discovered herring is the food stereotypically associated with Dutch people. FYI: Herring is a type of fish. So he smells like fish, gross! Or, is that scent what brings all the girls to his yard? And not because he buries them there.
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                                         (His victims. Solid 7’s.)
Someone confined to a prison cell for the next 28 years found love. Meanwhile, you get to come and go on dates as you please, yet nothing.  You even have the entire internet, a.k.a. the World, at your fingertips, a plethora of dating websites, many free, out there to help you find The One, but you still can’t find someone who’s mildly interested enough in you to hang around for more than a few days, maybe a few weeks. What’s wrong with you? My guess, a lot. The sooner you accept the fact that you’re forever alone the sooner you can get to buying eight cats. Remember, cats will love you unconditionally! And then feed on your entrails while your corpse goes unnoticed for months because you live alone and choked while eating a Lean Cuisine.              image

Give your finger a break from swiping on Tinder and wiping away your tears and invest in some fancy stationary. That way you have something to start writing letters to prisoners, because prisoners don’t have OkCupid or e-mail (right?). The U.S. Correctional System is probably the last untapped source for potential lovers that you haven’t bled dry. Yet. And I don’t mean that in a murder-stabby-van der Slooted kind of way. Who knows, you could be the next guy or girl planning prison nuptials with a convicted murderer! Unlike their victims, romance isn’t dead!

What exactly would any woman see in a homicidal lunatic like van der Sloot anyway? (More like, van der Slut, amirite?) Well, for one, he’s 6’4. His height alone lends itself to some interesting possibilities. He also has an accent, which is immediately makes him more attractive because accents are attractive. It’s a fact. He came from money, which some people are into. And his eyebrows looks like two lethargic caterpillars who are lazily trying to kiss each other. He has all that and a roof over his head. What do you have to offer prospective dates? Hmmm? All of a sudden offering to buy someone a cup of coffee seems rather insignificant, doesn’t it?

imageVan der Sloot isn’t the first murderer to find love within prison walls. Richard Ramirez, Ted Bundy, the Menendez brothers…all got married while in prison. Now I’m not suggesting you get yourself arrested and thrown in prison for any number of years, or am I? Desperate times call for desperate measures and it’s always nice to have options. Maybe some murder or gang relations is just what you need to spice up your love life. And while you’re probably thinking to yourself, “I don’t need prison to find love! It’ll happen to me! One day! If I keep telling myself that and wish hard enough…” remember, even Hitler had a girlfriend.

NYChronicles: The Time I Stood Alone in Times Square

    During my freshman year of college at S.V.A. I lived in Gramercy. If you’ve been to Gramercy before you know there’s not much happening in that neighborhood. Sure it has Gramercy Park, but that’s a private park that requires a key and a residency in a building around it. I had neither of those things. Thankfully Jesus/Buddha/Allah had graMERCY on my soul because there were a few dive bars in the area that didn’t card, so I was able to begin my decline into late nights and booze at an early, illegal age, but even boozing wasn’t as fun yet as it later came to be. What was a girl to do for fun?

    Lucky for me, my brother-in-law’s two nieces, and two of my only real friends at the time, in the city lived in Hell’s Kitchen. They provided a much needed escape from my dorm. We would get together on a weekly basis, Thursdays I believe, for girls’ night. Girls’ night was either spent drinking frozen strawberry margaritas at Rodeo Bar, or over at the small studio apartment they shared. 

    I spent one winter’s evening there, drinking unseasonal but still delicious sangria and probably watching newly-old episodes of Sex and the City (it was 2005 after all). When I left their apartment around midnight it had started snowing. They lived on 10th Ave., and I lived off of Third. As someone still new to the city I walked everywhere instead of learning how to utilize the subway. Riding the subway or in a cab alone terrified me. Now I can only assume I was afraid of the subway because I have a propensity towards getting lost. Very lost. And I was afraid of cabs because it required getting into a stranger’s car and at 18 I felt very rape-able. 

    Plus it was late (12? Not that late) and I’m sure the 18 year old me was frightened by things that go bump, and do bumps, in the night… So I walked from 43rd and 10th, to 23rd and 3rd, which meant I had to walk through Times Square. If memory serves me correctly I attempted to hail a cab once or twice to no avail. So I tried. Sort of. Now that I think about it there really isn’t a fast way to get from where I was to where I was going, especially at that hour. Have legs, will travel. 

    Any other time I’ve walked through or even near Times Square I’ve wanted to commit mass murder. If there’s a Hell, Times Square is a level; located somewhere around Port Authority (well, duh) and getting stuck for all eternity in the “empty” subway car. Can you imagine? This time was different though. It was snowing, it was late, there was no one around. The city was well lit but quiet, save for the sound of a very distant siren or two.  

    I stood for a moment, in the center of Times Square, the iconic Coca-Cola tower in front of me, neon lights and snow everywhere and for the first time I felt like I was exactly where I belonged. I had pinpointed the center of the universe and was standing directly on it. It was a feeling I had dreamed about for years. It’s a feeling and a moment I’ll never forget. Especially since I just wrote about it.

    There’s a reason so many people write about New York moments and how certain things can’t happen anywhere else. It’s true. No where else has the same type of magic as New York.  The city makes you put up with a lot and really work for them, which is what makes them so special. And they always happen when you least expect it, as though the city is trying to send you little reminders of why you choose to put up with so much to live there. 

NYChronicles/ The Time I Moved to New York City

    In a month I’ll finally be moving out of New Jersey. When I originally moved out of New York City, I planned on staying with my parents for the summer, bartending at the shore and making tons of money, and then moving to L.A. in September. Simple. Instead, I fell in love, made very little money, performed in two shows, went to a few weddings, and decided to move to Chicago. Simple.
    In honor of my finally making the transition from one city to another, I’ve spent a lot of time recently thinking about my nine years spent in New York. The mistakes I’ve made, what I’ve learned, all the drinks I consumed. My move to Chicago is my chance to start over, but along with all my clothing and random furniture I take with me memories of a city that once seemed like the only place I could ever live. Once I was in it, it was very hard to see out. Looking back, I wish I had left sooner. But I didn’t. And that’s all right. I’m not too old (yet) to pursue what I want to be doing.
    So in honor of those nine years, I’ve decided to spend the month of February writing about random memories/moments/experiences I had throughout my time there. The good, the bad, the weird, the “this could only happen in New York” sort of stuff. It’s an excuse to write. It’s something to nostalgically read when I’m old and can’t remember these moments on my own. Especially since in the grand scheme of things they seem so insignificant. But I guess they’re not, if I’m able to remember them, even now, and feel the need to share them with the internet.
    They won’t be in chronological order, except for this first one. My memory isn’t that good. I won’t include names aside from first initials if necessary. These stories aren’t meant to slander anyone, and I don’t think they will. If anything I’ll be embarrassed by my past self.


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The Time I Moved to New York City

    Ever since I was 13, I knew I was going to move to New York City. At the time N.Y.U. seemed like the appropriate school for me, because it was in the fabled Greenwich Village and I wanted to be an actress/director/artist. Up until that point, my only interaction with the city had been Times Square,and a few museums or Broadway shows. I didn’t know about life below 34th Street. Thankfully, the internet was no longer a brand new thing and by the time I was in eighth grade I could read about Washington Square Park and The Hotel Chelsea, beatniks and Sid Vicious, drags queens, drugs, graffiti…I was obsessed.

     I was one of those kids who was never content with where they were. Throughout high school I counted the years, the days until I graduated. The Manhattan skyline was my finish line, and I raced to reach it, even going as far as inquiring about Arts focused high schools in the city, only to be discouraged by my favorite teacher that I’d be better off with a “well rounded education.” Know how many times I’ve used Algebra in the past ten years? What is Algebra?

    While in high school, I got to experience both the West and East Villages a bit. Tower Records, the flea market in the vacant lot next to it, shopping in Soho (before I knew how annoying it was). On St. Mark’s Place I saw a man getting his make-up done, I think at Trash & Vaudeville. A REAL LIFE DRAG QUEEN! Just like the one I had done a report on in my Sociology class (Yes, I did a report on drag queens, where I also learned about Wigstock. Why is there no more Wigstock?!) On another trip there I was taken by my friend’s lesbian aunts to Rubyfruit’s (another thing that no longer exists!) We were 15, and trying to stomach a rum and coke (shared amongst three of us.) This was New York!

    I took a portfolio prep class at Pratt my senior year of high school and learned of the existence of Urban Outfitters. Owning a few things from there made me feel infinitely cooler amongst my peers. Remember, ten years ago, Urban Outfitters wasn’t as available as it is now. During those weekly Sunday classes, I also got to see New York in the Fall, arguably the best season in the city. I had class the day after Halloween and saw so many people still in costume from the night before. I wanted to be walking home in shame before I even knew what a walk of shame was!

    The aforementioned favorite teacher always liked to retell the story of my first day in Freshman Art. I don’t recall what prompted this, but I told her, “When I graduate I’m going to move to New York City and go to N.Y.U.” She was amazed how confident I was in my decision, and followed up my statement with the question, “And you’re willing to work as a waitress to make ends meet?” I responded with a resounding, “Yes,” while thinking, “I’ll never wait tables.” Oh how adorably naive little 14 year old Dana was! Even after 9/11, my teacher asked if I was afraid to move to the city. I figured less people might apply to colleges, increasing my odds of getting in. I also told her if I’m meant to die in a subway explosion, so be it. BOLD. Nowadays, I can’t even stand to be in the “empty” subway car with the decaying-yet-alive homeless person in it. I was so much harder in high school. I wore bandanas instead of headbands.

    Throughout high school, my mind continuously changed over what career path I would follow. Along with actress, director, and artist, fashion designer was briefly considered and it wasn’t until I learned about the tuition costs of N.Y.U. and the fact that I wasn’t a genius or Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen, I’d have to settle on a different school. That, combined with the realization that I was good at drawing, painting, and making collages while looking sad and was kind of obsessed with cartoons (particularly kid cartoons with adult innuendo, i.e. Spongebob, Fairly Oddparents) meant I should go to art school for Animation. I applied to the School of Visual Arts, Pratt Institute, and, just because, The University of the Arts (Philadelphia. No.). Well I got into all three, so my dream was now a reality- I was getting the fuck out of New Jersey.

    S.V.A. was my first choice, so that’s where I was going. Towards the end of the summer, my then boyfriend and I decided to go into the city in hopes of checking out the dorms. During our walk down 23rd street we witnessed cops covering up a body of a guy who must have just jumped from his building. Two blocks away from my school. So that was cool. We also couldn’t get into any of the buildings (why we thought we could I’m not sure), so I went completely sight unseen to both my school and my dorm aside from knowing where they were located. I had seen Sex and the City though, so I knew what was up.

    In the first week of living in New York, maybe into the second, I encountered a few strange things. While walking down to what must have been 1st Ave. with a friend we came to a basketball court where a group of guys were standing around a gray haired man laying on the court. No one was giving him C.P.R. They were just staring at him, (basket)balls in hand. Upon hearing my friend and I contemplate whether we were supposed to do something a man watching from our side of the gated court told us, “He’s been like that for ten minutes.” Almost immediately after an ambulance arrived. Within one month I saw two dead people. Great.

    Another day, while walking across a 2nd Ave. crosswalk a man in a tan suit was walking in the opposite direction as me. When he reached the middle of the crosswalk he fell to his knees, threw his arms in the air and yelled out a prolonged, “FUCK!!!!!!” Then he got up and kept walking like he didn’t just do something weird. I had passed him right when he did that and I remember jumping at his expletive because I automatically assume everyone has a gun.

    Completing the WHYfecta of strange occurrences, while I was  once again walking down 23rd I saw an elderly white lady, and a slightly obese black lady arguing. Over what, I’m not sure, because instead of using words, they were making animals noises. The old lady was “Moo-ing” repeatedly at the heavier woman. And right now I can’t seem to remember what the other lady did in response. I want to say she was, “Baa-ing” like a sheep. Actually, I don’t remember which one was making what sound. I know I wrote a “Deadjournal” post about it at the time. Regardless, WEIRD.

    Maybe Gramercy has some bad juju going on? Maybe the universe was trying to warn me to get the hell out of there before it was too late? Maybe over the years the same crap would happen but I’d learned to ignore it. When I walk in the city, I get in a zone. People will say “Hi” to me and I’ll accidentally ignore them because I don’t see or hear them. Maybe I accidentally on purpose learned to ignore all the crazy that goes on. Who knows.

    The rest of my first year in the city pretty much went as it started. I hated animating drawings. I learned I enjoyed writing scripts more than illustrating them. I learned the easiest way to make friends in a dorm is to smoke. Which I didn’t. And most importantly, I learned that having really high hopes for anything is a terrible idea, because there’s a very good chance you’ll be let down. Kind of like how I was with my first year in New York (well, until I discovered Avalon). And looking back through it all, I say it’s probably a 50/50 of how many times I was disappointed with my life there to how many times I felt like New York was the most magical amazing place we all constantly tell ourselves it is.

Fresh out of high school. All wide eyed and sober.

imageI’m so proud of myself now that I didn’t quote some pop-punk band from the early 2000’s.

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When I decided to transfer, I immediately thought about how my hand-print brick was now nothing but a lie.

The same thought occurred when I moved out of New York.

New Year, New Post

    For the past few days I’ve been meaning to sit down and write a New Year post. But I also resolved to finally watch The Wire and that’s taken up the majority of my free time. We started on the 1st and are already through season one and three episodes into season two. It’s nice to have an easily attainable goal. Also, Bubbles is totally my favorite.

    So now, one week since the new year began, (and one year since I created this blog!) I am actually going to write about 2013. Because it’s important!

    According to my Facebook and Twitter feeds, 2013 was a generally terrible year for everyone I follow. Everyone’s year was so soul-numbingly horrible, it was like 2013 raped their grandma and made them watch.  And for that, friends, I am sorry to hear. For me, 2013 wasn’t all that terrible. If anything 2012 was more of a raped grandma sort of year, but from its burning rubble emerged 2013 to change everything.

    And that’s how I see 2013. It brought on huge changes to my life. Almost every single one of them wonderful. It’s cliche but it really is crazy how much difference a year can make in someone’s life, and how thankful I am for this change. The first few months of 2013 were stressful, painful, confusing and by the Spring that had all peaked. And the realization finally came that I had to do something different. So I did. And now, seven months later, I still haven’t regretted a thing. I am so glad I no longer live in New York City. I am so glad not to have its associated stresses weighing down on me anymore. I am so happy I got to relax and spend a lot of time with my family. It was also serendipitous that I moved back when I did, because within one week of being in NJ I met the most wonderful, supportive, respectful, amazing (I could go on) man whom up until that point I honestly figured didn’t exist. I got to perform in two shows with wonderful people and it served as a reminder that I love being on stage. I love performing. And I love making people laugh.

    Am I finally where I want to be in life? No, but I’m getting there. I’ve longed to know what it’s like to be head over heels in love with someone, and now I do. But career wise? Of course not. But for the first time, instead of feeling shame and embarrassment and self-loathing for all that I haven’t done, I’m learning to appreciate everything that I have accomplished. Even more importantly, I see the possibilities that are out there and understand that I can attain them. And I will. I haven’t felt this excited about my future since I graduated high school and knew I was moving to Manhattan. I can still do anything I want to do. And for once, instead of looking at other people and feeling jealous or angry at their success, I look at them as proof that anything is possible if you work for it. It took me awhile, but I’m finally ready to work for it, and work really hard. At least then, if I fail, I can say I tried.

    I’m excited for everything. It’s almost strange to have so little negativity surrounding me.  All that I’m waiting for is to move out of New Jersey and into a city. Right now, it’s most likely Chicago. But who knows? It’s nice to have a concrete idea of what I want and what I don’t want in my life. It only took ten years, but hey, I sort of figured it out. And I did it before I’m 30, so that has to count for something.

    I hope everyone has a great year. I know a lot of my friends are moving out of the city, or at least moving around a bit. And I’m excited for them. I’m glad that for whatever reason so many of the people I “grew up” with in the city have all decided to make changes at the same time. It’s like we graduated and are all off onto new adventures and phases of our lives. I never thought of it that way until now, and I like it.

I’m 27 and my nose is still pierced. Is that okay?

    I have found myself perpetually at odds with a decision that has been plaguing my existence for awhile. PLAGUING IT. As usual, I choose to place the utmost importance on trivial things. Mainly as a source of both entertainment and so there’s something I can be at odds with since my life is just so darn agreeable nowadays.

    I got my nose pierced my freshman year of college, way back in 2004. Back when I was enamored with New York City, hating the college I went to and looking for a way to declare myself an independent. Also two of my friends had their noses pierced and it looked cute and I wasn’t about to go anymore extreme than a small hole in my nostril. For me, that little curved stud was happiness. One night shortly after getting it pierced it came out, and I couldn’t get it back in. I pretty much lost it. It would not. Go. In. And I was afraid the hole would close. And it probably cost me $80 to get it done and that’s a lot of money to an 18 year old. Amidst my freak out I remember saying to my then boyfriend, who was trying to calm me down, “This is the only thing that makes me happy!” Boy I sure was melodramatic. And an asshole.

    So now, almost ten years later at 27, I’m wondering, when exactly should I take this thing out? As an item not natural to my body, it’s something I rarely think about, except, of course, when I’m writing a blog post about it and agonizing over it’s existence- because it’s Friday afternoon and I’m not doing much else.

    I live in fear of becoming one of those women who doesn’t accept her age, but in that creepy way. Like the women who have really, really long hair but don’t style it and half of it is gray and the other half is brown and you know they make their own candles which actually seems like a bad choice for a hobby considering the four feet of flammable, unstyled material atop their head, coming almost all the way down to the bottom of their long denim skirt. They always wear long denim skirts. Oh, the humanity!

    A part of me doesn’t think I’m too old yet to take out my nose stud, I’m wondering when does it become too old? When I’m 30? When I’m a mom? Never? A part of me does enjoy the idea of being an 80 year old with a little nose stud. That’s the other thing, I have a teeny-tiny diamond  on my nose that most people don’t notice at first. Some friends of mine have even asked if I’ve just gotten it pierced because they never noticed it before. Obviously they were too preoccupied with my tits.

   If I got a job that didn’t allow facial piercings I’d take it out and be done with it, since it’s a lot easier than replacing it with a clear stud every day (like I did while working at Ruby Tuesday at 19. Oh the humanity!). Although I think enough time has passed that the hole wouldn’t close immediately as it did so many years ago. I also won’t have a break down over the hole if it did. Which is another issue: what if the teeny tiny hole never closes? Maybe a lil’ diamond isn’t so bad after all.

    I guess I just wonder what it says about me? And why do I keep it in anyway? I honestly am not sure. Because when I’ve thought about it I can’t come up with an answer and it’s probably because I don’t ever think about it. I don’t think it makes me look younger or cooler or edgier. It’s just there. Like the nose it resides on.

    When the time is right, I’ll know. I’ll feel it. Or I’ll be bored one day. Or I’ll lose the stud and fail to remember to buy a new one. Yeah.I’m probably only leaving this in because I haven’t been able to afford any new tattoos in five years or so. Actually, that’s totally it! See kids, writing stuff out without really thinking about anything can solve your problems! Unless you’re homeless. Dying. Or Crystal Gayle.

How to Occupy Yourself While Your Boyfriend is Away

   My boyfriend decided to go on a month long cross country road trip on his motorcycle. Yes, he is awesome. And yes, I am going through major withdrawl. This is someone I usually spend four or five nights of the week with, after all. And now that he’s not here I’ve had to find other ways to occupy my evenings normally spent with him occupying my body. I pretty much feel like this all the time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFXjLFlGm0k

    How does one go about entertaining themselves without a male, especially in a fun-barren wasteland like New Jersey? It’s very difficult, and as someone who’s already a week into a four week long separation, I know. And that’s why I decided to do something good for womankind by making this list.

1. Do something good for womankind

Aside from making this list I actually have no idea how one woman helps out another woman. Compliment that shirt she got from Express? Attempt to be sincere with the compliment? Only silently judge her for ten seconds instead of a whole minute? You look nice today.

2. Reconnect with old friends

You know, all those people you stopped hanging out with once you got a boyfriend. Every person has a social pyramid that prioritizes the other humans in their life. And now that the golden pointed tip (not a euphemism) that usually gleams in the sun is away riding his motorcycle, you have to look at the lower tiers for support and entertainment. They’ll be happy to hear from you. And for the first five minutes or so you’ll be happy to hear from them. Until you realize their problems are boring and you’d rather be home binge-watching reruns of How I Met Your Mother.

3. Take up a new hobby

No, crying and wallowing in loneliness don’t count as “hobbies.” But sculpting statues out of your used tissues do! Crafts are always a great way to pass the time, regardless of whether or not you have a boyfriend. But we all know if you have a boyfriend you have better things to be doing than knitting a stupid scarf. You have HIM to keep you warm. Crafts can’t hug you back.*

4. Utilize social media to pass the time

Social media is a useful way to stay in touch with those friends you regret making plans with to see in person. It’s also insanely useful if you want to pinpoint every move your boyfriend has made. And how else will you be able to remember how many eyelashes he has or the exact location of his eight freckles if you don’t spend all your waking hours staring at his photos online? And thanks to technology, instead of lugging around a whole book of photos, you have your phone’s digital photo album. It certainly leaves more room in your pocket or purse for the lock of hair (or in my case, beard hair) you snipped off while he was asleep.

5. Hang out with your boyfriend’s mom

It’s almost like hanging out with him, right? He came out of her vagina, and he’s always up in yours, so you’ll naturally have a ton of things to talk about! And what better way to get to know your potential if-you-don’t-fuck-things-up mother-in-law than by spending a little one-on-one time with her and a bottle or three of wine? She won’t learn to love you and accept you into her family unless you force her to. Plus, she needs to see that you’re so much better than all his other girlfriends. And nicer. And prettier. And more expensive gift-givier.

6. Have a lesbian affair

NOT WITH HIS MOTHER. But yeah, a month is a really long time to go without sex and we all know no guy would consider it cheating (except that one guy I dated awhile a back. I mean REALLY?! He would be so lucky! If he slept with a dude I wouldn’t think it was cheating, I would be happy he was so open sexually but at the same time I’d have to question it because while I agree it’s a double standard I feel that female sexuality is a lot more fluid (get it?) than males and that when a dude sleeps with another dude it’s different than when it’s a typically hetero girl sleeping with another girl…). Plus, think of how happy your boyfriend will be to have you describe in excruciating detail everything that happened during your lesbian tryst. It’ll give him something to think about while on the road. And he needs that.

7. Use Your Newly Obtained Craft Skills for Good

Let’s be real, no charity or orphans want your homemade oven mitts. Poor people don’t cook. That’s what soup kitchens and dumpsters are for. And let’s be real for real, they don’t want handmade dumpster diving mitts either. Instead, utilize your newly acquired artistry to construct a pillow boyfriend! This can be easily done. For instance, if I decided to make one of my boyfriend, I’d simply wait until his mother, drunk on wine, passed out. Then I “borrow” a pillow and one of his shirts and drive away into the night. Once at home, I would glue yarn to his pillow head for hair, two blue buttons to his “face” for eyes, along with a bunch of Brillo pads (because he has a beard. Duh.). Then I would lie in bed with it, cuddling close while repeatedly whispering, “Why did you leave me?” into his goose feather stuffed ear until I fell asleep. It’s totally normal: http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/HjdqP5aaQoM/hqdefault.jpg

8. Get drunk

We all know nothing, no amount of compliments or pillow versions of your boyfriend will ever make up for his absence. So why not numb the pain away the totally okay way? With boo-hoo-ooze. It makes everything better! Everything on this list will be accomplished quicker, and more satisfactorily if you’re drunk! You know you’ve always wondered what being an alcoholic would feel like. And it’s only for a month, your liver will regenerate itself back to its pre-when your boyfriend was still here state. Go ahead, have a drink or 17. Just be sure to hide your phone, computer and any other devices that would allow you to contact your boyfriend and let him to see what a drunk, insane, rambling, needy mess you’ve become. And for chrissake, don’t send photos, videos, or attempt to Skype or Facetime otherwise he’d see how bloated and pathetic you’ve become. I mean you’ve stopped wearing make up and bathing. He’s only gone for a month. Get a grip of yourself. Some women don’t see their husbands or boyfriends for months! And they don’t let themselves completely go and just sit around drunk, binging on bags of Kraft Mexican Mix shredded cheese and How I Met Your Mother.

*My apologies to anyone whose boyfriend is missing both their arms. He can still hug you with his eyes.

Are you there Great Pumpkin? It’s me, Dana.

    Each year come the month of October I am overwhelmed with the desire to decorate my living room with various Fall/Halloween ornamentation. Stringing strands of fake fall leaves and orange and purple lights everywhere. Cobwebs, pumpkins, ghosts, anything you can find at your local Dollar Store I’ve amassed over time. Why? Because I. LOVE. HALLOWEEN.

    Well, I did. This year was different. Maybe it’s because I live in New Jersey, and instead of decorating my own living room in New York, as I’ve done the past nine years, I had to decorate my parents’ house instead. And it just wasn’t the same. As someone who’s also rarely home, I had no time to spend bathing in the warm din of lights, candles and a jack-o-lantern, which is exactly how I spent October 2012.

    This year nothing as a costume really jumped out at me. And as someone who’s main purpose of living at home is to save money, I couldn’t justify going out and spending tons of money on costumes (I usually have three), especially when I had no real plans to speak of. Yes, plans and parties had been tossed around, but nothing stuck. Now there’s no discounting the Halloween party I went to this past weekend, but my costume was comprised of stuff I already owned, which is great. but it’s not what I’m used to.

    October in the past has been spent with me, sitting on the floor for hours poorly sewing together a costume for myself. I like to call it “Shitty Couture,” since it’s both handmade and barely passable as a garment. But I loved every minute of it! This year, the thought of exerting that much time and effort, not to mention money, seemed silly.

    I have a feeling the fact that I haven’t watched “Hocus Pocus” this year, not to mention any other Halloween themed movie, which for me includes “Rocky Horror,” hasn’t helped. Binge watching “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” can only do so much for a 27 year old.

    Is this what growing up is? Not caring about Halloween? While eating candy at work, this occurred to me: Every year I always want to have as many events to go to as possible, allowing me to dress up as a variety of people/characters. Generally it’s been three. This year, while living outside of the city, and feeling rather content with my life, I had little desire to be all Hallowextreme. Is my happiness reflecting my lack of desire to be someone else for a few hours? I’m not saying everyone who dresses up is depressed or unhappy with themselves, but it is the one time of year we get to be someone else and get away with it. Well, I guess St. Patty’s Day. (“I didn’t mean to, I was drunk!”). I do love to dress up because deep down, I’m a drag queen at heart, and the month of October allows her to fully come out.

    What it really comes down to, I’m sure, is that I’m lazy and poor and have no where to get dressed up to go. That’s it. I should stop trying to make it this grandiose problem. It’s not. And tomorrow when I wake up I won’t even think twice about it. I will, however, still want to watch “Hocus Pocus.”

Do the Write Thing

    Last night my boyfriend posed the question to me of what my priority is: moving to L.A. or writing? I responded with, “Both.” He then made the very logical point that it can not be both, that one has to have importance over the other. With that, I responded, “Writing.” Now this wasn’t merely about writing, I could do that anywhere. It was about getting a writing job.

    I’m currently stuck in limbo (i.e. New Jersey), where I’m not content with where I am (it is New Jersey after all) or what I’m doing. I’ve periodically applied to writing jobs within this state, and have been contemplating whether or not to bother applying in New York City. If I got a job in the city, I would commute to it. That’s what brought upon this conversation. Obviously, if Lorne Michaels called me up tomorrow and inexplicably offered me a job writing for “Saturday Night Live” I’d take it. Even though it would mean moving back to New York.

    What happens if I manage to secure some other sort of full time writing gig though? Yes, the chances are slim, but It would change everything. Do I commute from Jersey or move back? What does this mean for my current amazingly awesome relationship? What does this mean for my own sanity?

    All I want is to make a living as a writer. I want to go to work, and have a list of things I have to talk about and turn into entertaining articles or scripts (or both!) by a certain deadline while feeling anxious and not good enough or funny enough or- on certain days- pretty enough and I’d probably start drinking a lot more coffee and that would all be wonderful.

    Right now I can only fantasize what it would be like to have a job that doesn’t involve customers. It’s nearly unfathomable to me. I wouldn’t have to answer to anyone except my boss(es) and co-workers. I may get screamed at work because someone’s having a bad day and they’re taking it out on me for no reason-but at least I’ll know/be working with that person, as opposed to a complete stranger yelling at me. Wow! What a concept! I welcome the stress brought on by this kind of job. And after working in a restaurant for so many years, I know how to handle it. And with writing-induced stress I can at least feel like I’m doing something important. Bringing a tourist a Malibu Bay Breeze doesn’t count, even if it makes that asshole really happy. I’d rather write and reach a large audience, one that extends beyond the confines of a restaurant. I want people to read and laugh and write comments about my nonsense. And get paid for it!

   Now I’m not looking to become rich, it would just be nice to be making a decent salary. I’ve never had one of those before! And honestly, to feel like an adult. I’m aware that I lived on my own for nine years, in my own apartment that I paid for, but there’s something about working in restaurants that stunts maturity and growth in a way. I want to be proud of what I’m contributing to the world, even if it’s merely lists about strippers. I could move to California and/or get a new job and still not be happy, but I won’t know until I make those changes. I’m trying to give myself a second chance and do things right this time around, I just don’t want to prolong my career-or my life- anymore by not just “going for it.” But what is it I go for?

    The conundrum is never ending: in order to move to California I should be making more money than I am now. I don’t need to, but I think it would be wise of me to go out their with some cushion. In order to have that money, I need a better job. But the job market in New Jersey is terrible. So then what? Apply in New York. But if I get the job in New York…yeah. I do plan on applying for jobs in California before I move there. A part of me wants to start doing that now and move at the drop of the hat. But nooo, the holidays have to be right around the corner. And I don’t feel like spending the money I barely have on plane tickets.

     So for now, I’m stuck. This stickiness is of my own doing, I know. And there is an end in sight. The journey there isn’t as simple or fruitful as I had hoped it to be when I first moved out of the city. And I should remind myself that I’m lucky for all the other good aspects in my life, and heck, that I even have a job. And that for once it’s not in a restaurant. I’m just dying to finally be doing what I love to do: write.

    Last night I discovered that early 90’s favorite kid show, “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” is available on Amazon Prime. Rejoice! Not only do I now get to relive all the weird stories, but also the early 90’s through bad clothing, bad haircuts, and complete lack of cell phones and laptops. Stories aside, one of the best parts about watching this show, along with other childhood favorites (“Pete and Pete!”) is to go back to a time where kids where always out and about, entertaining themselves. Not sitting inside, binge-watching some show from they’re childhood that they can stream instantly at any given time. No. They’re out sitting around a campfire, getting some fresh air and trees. And, in the case of The Midnight Society, these kids technically came up with their own stories to share. They sat in their room, took out their Five Star or Lisa Frank notebook and wrote some messed up stories to share with their friends in the woods. I wish that was my life now. 
    But what I really, really wish is that I was part of The Midnight Society.  Meaning I wish I had been on this show, as a reoccurring member (although the actors in each story probably had more fun). Which really is just getting to my point, that I wish I had been a child star.
    This is something I’ve thought a lot about, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I only have my parents to blame. I needed to have been born to a stage mom. Or Dina Lohan. I had the desire to be on stage, to be on camera, I just needed someone to force me to not graduate middle school and commit to my career instead. But no, I just had to get an education. Where has my college degree gotten me anyway! Even Ryan Gosling was on this show at one point! I could be Ryan Gosling right now! And he’s totally well adjusted.
    I like to think that if I had been forced into child stardom I would have managed to steer away from all the drugs. Heroin doesn’t now nor has it ever interested me, and I’m a nobody. So if I was famous, I probably wouldn’t have gotten into it. If anything I should want to get into now, since I don’t have anything better to do. But alas, hard drugs are not for me. And as far as I know Ryan Gosling has never done heroin. 
    Maybe it would’ve helped if I had been born in Canada. Like Ryan Gosling. And where they filmed, “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” Parents might be pushier there. Or talent (like everything else) is cheaper and therefore Hollywood looks to the North to build their sound-stages and supply relatively talented actors to fill them. My life would be so different, if only I had been born in Canada. (Cut to: Parallel universe Canadian Dana, writing on her AyMac about how she wishes she could’ve been born in America).
    Of course there’s the possibility that if I had become a child star I would be dead right now. But, there’s also the possibility that I wouldn’t, and would be famous like Ryan Gosling. The world, and more importantly, me, will never know.

    Last night I discovered that early 90’s favorite kid show, “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” is available on Amazon Prime. Rejoice! Not only do I now get to relive all the weird stories, but also the early 90’s through bad clothing, bad haircuts, and complete lack of cell phones and laptops. Stories aside, one of the best parts about watching this show, along with other childhood favorites (“Pete and Pete!”) is to go back to a time where kids where always out and about, entertaining themselves. Not sitting inside, binge-watching some show from they’re childhood that they can stream instantly at any given time. No. They’re out sitting around a campfire, getting some fresh air and trees. And, in the case of The Midnight Society, these kids technically came up with their own stories to share. They sat in their room, took out their Five Star or Lisa Frank notebook and wrote some messed up stories to share with their friends in the woods. I wish that was my life now. 

    But what I really, really wish is that I was part of The Midnight Society.  Meaning I wish I had been on this show, as a reoccurring member (although the actors in each story probably had more fun). Which really is just getting to my point, that I wish I had been a child star.

    This is something I’ve thought a lot about, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I only have my parents to blame. I needed to have been born to a stage mom. Or Dina Lohan. I had the desire to be on stage, to be on camera, I just needed someone to force me to not graduate middle school and commit to my career instead. But no, I just had to get an education. Where has my college degree gotten me anyway! Even Ryan Gosling was on this show at one point! I could be Ryan Gosling right now! And he’s totally well adjusted.

    I like to think that if I had been forced into child stardom I would have managed to steer away from all the drugs. Heroin doesn’t now nor has it ever interested me, and I’m a nobody. So if I was famous, I probably wouldn’t have gotten into it. If anything I should want to get into now, since I don’t have anything better to do. But alas, hard drugs are not for me. And as far as I know Ryan Gosling has never done heroin. 

    Maybe it would’ve helped if I had been born in Canada. Like Ryan Gosling. And where they filmed, “Are You Afraid of the Dark?” Parents might be pushier there. Or talent (like everything else) is cheaper and therefore Hollywood looks to the North to build their sound-stages and supply relatively talented actors to fill them. My life would be so different, if only I had been born in Canada. (Cut to: Parallel universe Canadian Dana, writing on her AyMac about how she wishes she could’ve been born in America).

    Of course there’s the possibility that if I had become a child star I would be dead right now. But, there’s also the possibility that I wouldn’t, and would be famous like Ryan Gosling. The world, and more importantly, me, will never know.

I better not see you next Tuesday.

    I spend eight hours a day, five days a week working inside a small office. I generally offer to go pick up lunch for myself and the other girls I work with since it’s an opportunity to step outside for a few minutes.

    Today while walking down the sidewalk along the main street of the quaint beach town my office is located in, I was thinking about how the lovely the weather was, how the fallen leaves add to this town’s coziness. That even in non-summer months it’s still a lovely town to visit, and perhaps, even call home.

    Then I had to maneuver around a woman who decided to park her bicycle perpendicular to the sidewalk while she looked out clothing hanging on an outside rake. The sidewalks here are small, and her “too old for this color” pink bike took up the entire width of it. I was, of course, annoyed. And as always it was beyond my own comprehension to understand how someone, especially an adult older than myself, would think it was okay to leave your bike standing (shocking, I know, that she didn’t just throw it down wherever she pleased) wherever she please to completely block the sidewalk.

    I continued on my journey, and thought to myself, “That woman is going to ride her bike on the sidewalk and I’M going to be in her way.” Sure enough, a minute later, I hear muttering behind me. Then I hear, “Watch out.” Sure it was said calmly, but really? REALLY? I just had to move out of YOUR bike’s way, and now, instead of riding on the not-at-all busy street the one pedestrian (ME) needs to accommodate YOU and needs to, “Watch out.”

FLAMES FLAMES…ON THE SIDE OF MY FACE…I HATED HER SO MUCH

    Yes, I understand that this is a silly thing to become so enraged over. But this is legitimately one of the reasons I had to move out of the city. How were people raised? And why are they now allowed to reproduce only adding more assholes to this already asshole filled world? What makes people think that the world revolves solely around them and their crappy little life? Yes we should all share the sidewalk. But when she was originally in my way, and then couldn’t even say, “Excuse me” for me to move out of hers I had to restrain myself from quickly finding a rock to toss at her head. What she forget to say after, “Watch out,” was, “entitled cunt on wheels coming through.”

    In my rage I had to make up a whole back story for her and how terrible of a human she is. She obviously doesn’t have a job, because she has the time to look at clothing at a surf shop she’s too old to shop at around one in the afternoon. Maybe she has kids, because terrible people like that always do. They’re usually unhappily married as well, so at least I could gain some satisfaction in her hypothetical terrible marriage. Where her husband works in the city and has to work late a lot and maybe he’s banging his secretary but the twist here is that his secretary is a dude. My misery fantasies about other people only get so involved before I get bored or arrive at my destination. Which is what happened.

    And yes I’m bitter because I hate my job and she was probably on her way to get a pedicure so she could repeatedly tell some Asian lady to, “Watch out!” every five minutes while she got her hooves sawed at. Hopefully the pedicurist cursed her under her breath, both with swear words and a hex, and gave her foot fungus or something like that flesh eating bacteria that keeps getting mentioned in the news.You know that bitch doesn’t tip well either.

    While walking back carrying a bag full of salads and a cup holder full of four drinks I hear a male voice say, “Where’s my lunch?” It was a mailman, sitting in his truck, creepily smiling at me.

    Really.

    Good thing the government shut down didn’t close down the post offices otherwise I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to see that guy.

    Then I got back to my office only to see the girl who I don’t like at the cafe we go to four times a week messed up our order. Again.

    I haven’t hated anyone up close and somewhat (only in my head) personally in awhile (all the shitty drivers don’t count, because they’re shielded by car). In a way I should be relieved. Instead, I’m just aggravated.