(Source: terrysdiary)
INTERNET FAME IS THE NEW STREET CRED.
I’ve been on a major kick of jamming to what some like to call Tumblr Rap. Basically refers to young and hot beezies who get famous of their homemade vids. It’s inspiring to think what the web can do for ambitious, talented chicks from, like, central Florida or inner Oakland, who might not ever leave their hometown if it wasn’t for their shit getting reblogged up the wazoo.
My current favorites: Kitty Pryde and Chippy Nonstop.
Greens greens greens.
(via dannny)
Back from a week spent in California and I’m already missing that warm toes feeling. It was my first time exploring Los Angeles as an “adult” (a title I use half begrudgingly, half sarcastically) and I had more fun than a kid at Disneyland.
On my first morning, my cousin Lorna and I suited up by stripping down to hike Runyon Canyon. We passed a mean looking yellow rattle snake and reassured each other that just because you can’t see our tattoos doesn’t mean we aren’t proud of them. Later, we visited Grouman’s Chinese Theater and I stuck my Chuck Taylor’s right on top of where Tom Hanks had, once, stuck his own skinny feet. I closed my eyes and wished for something like Big to happen but where instead of turning in to forty year old me, I could turn into Tom himself. I bet Rita Wilson is a great kisser.
One night, Bug and Bri and I played trivia at a bar on Santa Monica Blvd. The Lakers had just won in the first round of playoffs and the bar was filled with basketball jerseys. I answered a question about The Spice Girls incorrectly and I’m worried that I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
I ate a lot of fish tacos and plenty of cheap tequila. I learned how to play Settlers of Catan and also met my favorite queen on Rupaul’s Drag Race. I spent an afternoon in an old friends Tree House, erecting a vintage parachute over her bed, debating whether the large dark blotches were blood from a bad jump. I touched the cold Pacific and bought lots of neon and leopard. And then I came back to Brooklyn, the only place I’ve ever loved and hated so hard at the same time.
Last night, as I was brushing my teeth, I realized that you were gone. I chocked on my Colgate and suddenly started to cry very hard. It’s funny the way that you can prepare for someone’s departure, both physically and psychologically, and not deal with it emotionally until after the fact.
Remember how hard we danced during the fall of our sophomore year? There was one particular party in Brooklyn with a ladder leading to a rooftop. We took the F train from Bryant Park and wore bright lipstick and sat with our knees folded out on that roof in the dark. Bare arms and ankles, smoking Camel after Camel to make our heads spin like the stars. On our journey home, you held my hand up a steep escalator. Know that that was the moment I was sure we would never leave each other. Remember the Christmas we spent together? Drinking mimosas and watching character comedy on DVD? Know that you are infinitely more funny than those slapstick comedians and that you will be famous if you want to be.
You often talk about the first time we met. I was 17, sitting outside of The New Dorms on campus. I was crying. You had very short hair and such a loud, loud laugh. The first person I ever met from Kentucky and the only girl I’ve ever known who can make sailor-like swearing charming. I’ve left you twice now once, after graduation, and again, to adventure in Asia but I’ve always returned. I’m counting on you to do the same.
By now, you are settled in your small apartment outside of Moscow. I don’t think the building will have internet, which means you’re probably reading a paperback novel in your bed. I wonder how cold you are. And how many cigarettes you’ve had since your arrival. I hope not more than three.
Love, I.
More love letters to friends abroad, inspired by the adorable adorations of Lucy & Cat.
TGIF.
For a girl so utterly committed to her homestate of Oregon, it might surprise you to know that I am happiest on a tropical beach. This is meant as no offense to the mountains or the dessert or the forest or even the great plains, all of which I’m also found of. But there’s something about warm, clear water that fills my insides up more than the rest.
I’ve been dreaming a lot about water lately. Two nights ago, of floating down the Mississippi towards the gulf, realizing I had arrived in New Orleans and swimming hard towards the oil-free calm waters. Then last night, of packing up my Crown Heights apartment, boarding a plane back to Thailand, and crying when I realized I had forgotten my Learn How to Knit Kit. Analyzation aside, the feelings with which I woke up from both were, Go back to sleep, quick, and stay in that wonderful world.
This morning on Facebook, I looked at photos of some old friends on their honeymoon in Bali. So much turquoise - the sky and the sea the same color. I ached with jealousy until I reached a caption that read, “Our tour guide for the two weeks.” This made me indescribably sad, though I’m still not sure quite why.
Yesterday, an old boss of mine died. He was snowboarding on Whistler, fell, hit a soft spot, and was killed instantly. I found out only hours later, in New York, because of a Facebook status update. It felt like a lie.
How different a freak fall can feel when it happens around the world from where you are. We can pretend he is still on vacation. We can pretend he ran away.
Last night, I lay in bed and thought aloud what kind of thing was being tested, what kind of weird point was God trying to make by challenging this old work family of mine. I realize now that that’s selfish. But I’m young and inherently that way and I don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to run away and hide out in Asia for a long while.
Skinny minnies in Bend, Oregon. 2002.
Brianna and I met on during the second week of September in 2001. I had just turned 14 and was feeling pretty powerful. High school had truly changed everything - I was reinventing myself by the minute. Not just changing my hair, not just wearing an underwire bra. I was determined to become an actress that the seniors took seriously. I entered in to the auditorium for One Act auditions with my tiny chest held high.
Brianna was older. A sophomore who resembled everything it was that I loved about My So Called Life. She was dark and quiet, sitting with her hands folded across her stomach, wearing pants with more holes than denim. We were cast in the same play: me, as the pigtailed, peppy childhood crush of the lead, Bri, as the stoic and suicidal mother. The roles, however opposite, forced us to a closeness I had not yet known with another girl.
Throughout our three years together, we were inseparable - sleepovers spooning in our single beds, plastering our walls with matching magazine cut outs of Justin Timberlake, crushes on the same boys, fall outs with the same friends. Then, things changed. Brianna found a boyfriend. I found a boyfriend. Brianna left for Israel. I left for college. For years, our relationship turned to occasional emails and strained phone calls. It left us both broken hearted but unsure of how to fix it.
Then - just as suddenly, somehow, for a reason I’m still not sure of - we clicked back to us.
Tomorrow, Bri comes to see me in BK. I’ll have the bathing suits and bubble bath waiting.
