Monday, November 17, 2014

Friends with Words

My friend Adam is a pristine, technicolor wood nymph jet-setter. He loves to travel. It's rare that we'll have a conversation that doesn't involve him saying something like "I was on Groupon looking at all-inclusive Mexican resort packages" or "I have to lose three pounds before Maui" or "Bonobos is having a sale on short-sleeved floral print button downs, I bought six."

He's always thinking about his next vacation, which is something I can't really relate to. Traveling stresses me out, and I have a hard time relaxing on a beach when I know that I've spent an entire paycheck on this privilege of relaxation. I don't want to be this way, but it is my truth.

So aside from the time Adam got drunk and bought us plane tickets to Bermuda, I'm usually holed up in New York while he galavants all over the damn place, getting tan and yelling at lizards. And that's fine. That's ideal.

The point is that we started texting creatively while he was on a trip to Vegas once, and the tradition stuck. Now whenever one of us leaves the city for an extended period of time, we'll text using only images and raw materials. No traditional texting.

Here's the latest one.








































That last one makes no sense, but Adam was very proud of it, so.

He's also proud of his new Instagram account, Words with BFFs, which is something we'll both be making weird stuff for.


Thursday, November 6, 2014

Pleasure, How Do You Plead?

I was thinking about guilty pleasures recently, trying to understand the gross feeling I get whenever I use the term out loud. At first I thought that it felt nasty because it sounds like a bite-sized Dove chocolate bar marketed to middle-aged women who are Living For Today. Which it does.


When I ruled that out, I thought that maybe it was just because the word "pleasure" is, to me, for whatever reason, one of the most profoundly upsetting words in the English lexicon.


That wasn't it, either. I couldn't figure it out. And I didn't have much more time to think about this, as I was in the shower, and nearing the end of my never-changing cleaning sequence. Showering is essentially the only time of my day where my eyes aren't glued to either a screen or the inside of my eyelids, and as a result it's when I do my most abstract and productive thinking. This is not a new concept. You probably know exactly what I'm talking about, seeing as you've found my blog in the obscure depths of the internet equivalent of the Mariana Trench. I'm willing to bet that you don't come up for air much either, screen-wise.


Anyway I started to think about the things I thoroughly enjoy and also consider to be guilty pleasures. And then I asked myself why, if I genuinely and unironically love these things, why do I feel the need to veil them in this weird apologetic cloud. As if to say - I like this, but I know I'm not supposed to.

It wasn't until I built a mental list of all the things I consider to be guilty pleasures that I finally realized what was bugging me. I've spent my life meticulously creating Kristin: The Person. I'm conscious of how people see me, and you are too. Of you. Of how people see you. When you say something is a guilty pleasure, you're acknowledging that this interest doesn't align with the outward facing persona you've spent your life building. And that's fine, and obvious, and who cares.

But try this. Make a list of your guilty pleasures, and see if they don't combine to describe the type of person you despise most in the world. They will.


It feels gross to say that something is a guilty pleasure because it's just straight up unfair to judge someone so harshly on something they like, and to make assumptions about the rest of their character based on the fact that they think Uggs are comfortable.

So, in an effort to make friends with the girl I hate that is apparently living inside of me like some sort of cacodemon, I'm going to list all of my known guilty pleasures, embrace them, and turn them into straight up pleasures. God I hate that word.


Here's the thing about Sex and the City. It's a flawless show. There are hijinks, there is conflict, there are butts. Like, real butts. No one's trying to hide the butts with strategic blocking on that show. It's commendable. Brave.


I take pride in the decisions I make when it comes to food. I want people to be jealous of my sandwiches. Is that so horrible? I want to inspire people, in a sandwich sense. By seeing my sandwiching on social media, I hope people strive to sandwich better. The more I think about it, the more YOU sound like the dick in this situation.


Usually I'd be first in line to roll my eyes at such an overused, hyperbolic, fragmented sentence. But it perfectly describes the way I feel about so many things. People turned on this phrase pretty quickly. Like, alarmingly quickly.


A subject ripe for parody in the minds of those who think they've got Brooklyn all figured out - brunch is just a great way to round out the week with people you like. You take your time, you have a bloody mary, you talk about weekend highlights and weekday plans. You exhale, you eat eggs, and you probably Instagram those eggs. It's fine. It's FINE.


They're the only ones I can do without thinking too hard. When I try and attempt a Friday puzzle, I feel like I should have my driver's license revoked. That's how inept they make me feel. I don't need to be reminded that I don't know a whole bunch of things. I already know that.


I've talked about this in a previous post, but yeah. I love Ikea. I love Ikea especially when I need nothing from Ikea. I know that Ikea needs nothing from me, so sometimes I like to strut around the showroom and tell the fake refrigerators and Expidit shelves that I don't need them, either. That way we're on an even playing field, and a mutual respect inevitably develops between myself and Ikea.

Then an employee in a blue polo shirt tells me that I'm not allowed to get under the sheets, and that she's not going to tell me again.


I can't eat just one slice of pizza. But I'm rarely interested in eating more than two. I think that everyone has a sadistic streak, and this is how I get those particular jollies.


I'm in the business of under-the-table baby birthing. I've yet to hold on to a client through an entire gestational period, but - one can't rush these things. I get it, though. Putting your unborn child's life in the hands of a girl who's never had any medical training outside of a 2006 CPR certification is risky, to say the least.

But as I say to all my potential clients - I have lady parts too, and a general understanding of how they work. Whaddayasay we get that baby outta there. To which they usually reply - "I'm not pregnant" and/or "How did you get into my apartment."


Blackmailing a bug is surprisingly easy. You don't even really need any actual dirt on them. Just sidle up next to a roach, whisper "I saw what you did," and they'll fold like a two/seven offsuit.

Every bug has something to hide. I think we can all agree that it'd be nice to have the upper hand for a change.


I'm not saying that there isn't a big round orb in the sky every night. That would be ludicrous. I have eyes. It's just - ever since the scientists made that Tupac hologram, I've been questioning everything.


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Oh it should also be noted that in addition to productive and abstract thinking, the shower is where all of the world's dumbest thoughts that are otherwise held at bay by daily distractions come leaking out of my skull. This started as something sincere, and look what I went and did.