the madame.

True story: I live in a gypsy brothel. 

No really. What started off as 'family dinner' in my apartment last night turned into a fight for a death for bedrooms, privacy and (in my case) sanity. Seeing as I am the only permanently attached person in this apartment I watched semi-silently in the corner as everyone in my apartment consumed roughly 3 bottles of tequila and then splintered off with respective partners to respective locations. I don't think I'll ever really understand my life. 

classy (fide.)

Roommate Needed.

(Fucking) amazing 2 bedroom, 1.5 bath apartment in Williamsburg, NY, on the brink of hipster cool and one short* train ride away from the most amazing city in the world. Would prefer a sassy gay man who can dress me each morning and validate my 'indulgent' purchases. Currently live in a gypsy apartment with strippers, 6 year olds, one vegan, alter-egos, and the occasional tranny-hooker. Also have developed a mild case of turrets from said roommates and have a tendency to say things like 'bitch' and 'skank' very enthusiastically --- but I generally wouldn't take it personally. All interested parties inquire within. 

*short only if you can navigate the ny subway system. If not you'll end up in New Jersey. And die.  

PANIC PANIC I DON'T WANT TO BE A TRANNY

...Nothing against trannies.

So I went to my hair appointment today, and what sounded fine in theory ("a blunt bob, so you won't have to style the front like you would for an a-line cut, with layers all around to give you volume") ended up with me staggering out of the salon looking a Korean pop star. A Korean man pop star. I came home and dunked my head under the sink, and this is what I came out with:





I have a 3-hour class in about half an hour; every time anyone looks in my direction I'm going to assume that they're seeing this:



Which, I mean, Friar Tuck was a badass, but NO. This is not going to help my participation grade.

a letter.

Dear Jen,

After a 2 hour phone call with the NYU Housing Department I've been informed that my chances of getting on campus housing are slim to none. I think this is a sign that you need to move to New York with me and be fabulous, or as fabulous as we can afford to be. We can skimp on unnecessary things (food, water, electricity, etc) and save our minimum wage pay-checks for the essentials (designer shoes, small leather goods, blair waldorf-esque headbands) and call it the good life. If this isn't a life plan I don't know what is.

<3

muss

...till you live with them.

The conversation went something along these lines:

Muss: I think I want to read 'Are you there vodka? It's me Chelsea.'

Hannah: I used to own that, till my mom donated THAT and 'How to Make Love Like a Pornstar' to an elementary school book fair.

...crickets. 

the middle names of teds

VERONICA: Well, that triggered a 229 protocol, which means I now have to give you a job interview, [looks at application] Theodore. Margaret. Crisp.
TED: Job interview?...And it's pronounced 'Mar-gar-ay.' It's a family name. It means 'lamb of God.'
VERONICA: I don't care. Now, let's begin the charade. Or, as Mar-gar-ay would say, 'shar-odd.'

Unfortunately for Ted Mosby, "Evelyn" is pretty much only pronounced one way. Also, I think I need to stop watching television.

i don't slip.

Most amazing purchase of the day: 

The American Apparel Le Sac Dress, and appropriate strings. The man of questionable sexual orientation* told me that if I mastered the Le Sac dress I could conquer anything. Apparently he never got the memo that I already win at life.

Speaking of which, tonight I went to a rave for which I was not properly outfitted (ie missing ecstasy and glo sticks) left early and came home to be the third wheel. Fun was had for all. 

*note: men who work at American Apparel are a grey area on the gay/straight scale. Too trendy to be straight, but not fashionable enough to be gay. The world may never know.