wifey status as the french boof lost his 2 front teeth in a biking accident this weekend. send him love, I’ve already given him bacon and beer.
BE SAFE, BIKER FRIENDS.
Yo Harry from Mad Men lives in Brooklyn I just saw him on the F train ride home
- I've been using an app called duolingo this week to start teaching myself spanish
- i learned my favorite word already
- el azúcar
come to me, my darling.
anyone have a forget me now pill? I need to erase this week
some thoughts:
- couples who travel RTW together amirite?! the worst.
- “hey thanks _____ hotel/tourism board/restaurant for the ____ hookup” Instagram photos are the biggest humble brags and I just cannot
- just network with people you genuinely like, be a human being for Christ’s sake and stop being a phony
- how that dude lives on Smith street and has a job and gets on the same RSVP lists is beyond me. oh wait HE STOLE ALL MY FUCKING CONTACTS
- I’ve given up on saving for vacation because emergencies (read: New York Shitty living) will always come up
- I want to get married if it means NOT sharing financial assets, so is there such a thing? or do I just get fake married instead?
- I’m in the market for a new bike and I am very excite
- if you are constantly saying “OH MAN WE NEED TO HANG OUT” and then I call/text/msg you every fucking weekend and you don’t respond or say you’re busy or whatever the fuck excuse, please just STFU because I’m tired of reaching out and looking desperate while you’re running around
- same applies for anyone visiting this city often and flakes out
- today I wrote down a list of “this is what I’m working on” at work and it was 3 pages long. I filed it as “wtf is my job”
this morning’s conversation:
I’m basically living the life of a 55 year old woman. I now fall asleep most weekends before 9pm and wake up angrily to sounds of weird animals outside my window around 8:45am to which I shower and immediately am off in search of breakfast and coffee. then I go to the farmers market to ponder that night’s dinner, which I end up cooking around 4pm because God knows I want to be back in bed sleeping before 9pm.
this morning was pretty much like that but with more conversations about being terrified of being children (for A LOT of reasons but mainly) because restaurants will reject you at brunch.
also when you’re 55 you’re on a very fixed income, which after a few months of fun, I’ve realized I’m back on and have no room for an emergency fund.
so, long story short, I -again- do not feel my age.
awesome.
this day calls for ice cream in bed kinda night, I think.
today in lady biz reads: the need for the Femme Fatale to return.
and consequently, the need for me to go home and watch this movie immediately.
1) what should I eat for lunch?
and
2) is it 4pm yet so I can go right back to bed and binge watch TV?
One of the reasons is that it’s so easy to become a food journalist. You just declare yourself one. It’s driven down the pay rate to almost nothing. Moreover, the ethical underpinning has eroded the extent that you can’t pick up a piece of food journalism, read it and fully understand where it’s coming from. Unfortunately, with the armies of people calling themselves food journalists, the whole area has become clogged.
The Village Voice in particular; I was marked for death. Why pay expenses and pay a food critic when you can get the same bounce making puffy descriptions of places that open? I’m hoping that once people start treating food as a normal thing and not some source of adulation, we’ll be able to go back to food journalism.
”
