Wednesday, July 16, 2014

This Is Who I Am Now

By: Ben Johnson



My dog got a haircut yesterday. She has less hair now. She looks different than she used to look before, back when she had more hair. I like her haircut. I took a picture of her haircut. I almost put that picture on Facebook with a insipid caption like “Summer haircut fun!!!” I had to stop myself from doing this. “All the people I know probably don’t care that my dog got a haircut,” I thought, before not posting a picture of my dog with a haircut, “people are probably tired of seeing pictures of my dog. I’ve been posting a lot of pictures of my dog to Facebook.”

I wanted to post the picture of my dog’s haircut, though. I still want to. In fact, I am finding a way, right now and right here, to basically just post a picture of my dog’s new summer haircut. I shouldn’t fight it. I should accept that my dog’s haircut feels to me like an event in my life. Not like a lifechanging event, but like a “in the last month of my life, the dog’s haircut is in the top five things that happened.” I could share that with people. That’s okay. That’s me. This is who I am right now. I’m a guy who does this.



I used to be a guy who did a lot of stuff. I’d leave my shitty apartment and then do a bunch of stuff and drink a bunch of booze and ride a bike through a snowstorm and get laid and say weird mean things to strangers on a bus and generally be an obnoxious twat. Now my apartment isn’t a shithole anymore and I live with my girlfriend and we have a dog. Instead of going out and being an obnoxious twat I can stay in and just look at my dog.

She’s a dog. She barks at me pretty much whenever I do anything but lie down on the floor and play with her. She’s a little over a year old, so she’s basically a puppy still. I indulge her. She’s cute. If you look at every tweet or Facebook post in the entire world that’s about a thing somebody is watching, like a sports game or a TV show or a movie, I missed that. I was on the floor playing Get The Guy with my dog.

You want to know what I’m up to? I’m on the floor playing Get The Guy. We do a lot of Original Baby Get The Guy, some Rope Guy Get The Guy, and Flamingo Get The Guy. Squeaky Guy Get The Guy has been discontinued. Squeaky Guy rolls under things. I sometimes wonder if my dog is keeping Get The Guy stats in her head. Like, "Today I had five grabs, ten slips, and four runs, I'm clearly improving my short game in Flamingo Get The Guy." Maybe she is doing that. She's very intense about Get The Guy.



Sometimes we switch it up and do Boneholder. Sometimes 100% On You Boneholder. I can refer to myself as “Boneholder.” I don’t mind. I realize it’s a double entendre. I’m not stupid. I hold a bone. It’s a doggie chew bone. I hold it so my dog can chew it better, which she seems to like. Sometimes she lies her entire small dog body down on my torso, 100% on you style, while she chews on the bone I am holding. A chew bone, guys. Don’t be gross. I’m Boneholder. This is who I am now.


Last weekend I dogsitted a different dog. It was me, this other dog, and my dog. It was much dog. My life is usually 100% dog anyway, this was like 200% dog. The other dog is a bigger dog than my dog. The other dog got on me, and then my dog also got on me, and it was like 100% dog on me times two. It was like if you took maximum dog and then added an extra dog just for a hint of dogness. I’m not going to say it was too much dog. It was just a lot of dog.



You don’t want to hear about this? I don’t blame you. You’re probably out there running wild and free, being an obnoxious twat who reads and watches things instead of holding bones and getting guys for a dog. I submit that your life is the same as mine. I submit that you are just doing what you’re doing and I am just doing what I’m doing, and what I’m doing is this. Full blown doghaving. 24/7.

You don’t want to see a picture of a dog with a haircut, that’s not gonna be my problem from now on. That’s gonna be your problem.

I’m me. This is who I am now.

I’m a grown man who posts dog pictures on Facebook for his aunt to enjoy. I apologize to no one.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

The Irish Goodbye

By: Ben Seeder



If you know what it is then you know what it is, and you know that it’s really really really really really great. Oh man...how great is it?  It’s seriously so great. For those not in the know, The Irish Goodbye is leaving a party without saying goodbye to anyone and without making a sound. It’s so simple, and so great.

The Irish Goodbye was born out of necessity, as somehow there is a sample of millions and millions of people around the globe who for whatever reason have never acquired the basic skills of appropriately saying goodbye to friends at a party. Especially one where everyone’s fucked up. If you’re one of these people I can’t help you and don’t understand you, but if you’ve clicked on this link, then chances are you’re among the untold number of victims who’ve at one point or another had to deal with this egregious horseshit and you want your life back.

The first step in the nightmare involves telling the offender(s) that as an adult you’ve concluded it’s time to say goodnight and leave the party. This is usually met by the offender staring blankly at you for a minimum ten seconds, as if they are seeing you for the first time in their lives. Then, you’re likely to be repeatedly informed “You’re not leaving. You’re not leaving bro” as hands begin being placed on you. This of course opens the door to negotiations and promises of the riches you will be missing out on for the rest of the evening (“We’ve got a DJ, bro. Dollar bottles bro”). The chief culprit then provides you the courtesy of informing the rest of the party en masse that you’re talking about taking off, including people you had no intention of saying goodbye to anyway.

Your notice of exit is taken as a personal affront to their youth, self-worth, and capacity for fun. Your attempt to leave this party prematurely has touched a deep-seeded nerve of the utmost sensitivity where you have confirmed their darkest suspicions that they are in fact boring and not good enough. Everyone has these insecurities, but theirs strangely manifests itself most strongly in the party arena.

They refuse to honor your thought process and adult decision making skills and it is extremely, extremely selfish. They refuse to believe you are tired. They will not accept that you are not having an amazing time. How could you not be having an amazing time? They are. It is inconceivable that you would have anything else to do. They put their face close to yours. They breathe on you. They will never be as serious about anything ever for the rest of their lives. You’ve opened Pandora’s Box and you will be punished for your ignorance.

Once the negotiation process has been exhausted and you’ve been put in the position of having to borderline scream at a grown man in public, it is then that they exercise perhaps their most masterful stroke of genius. Now that you’ve been coerced into deliberating with them for at least five minutes and they’ve gotten you nice and worked up, in a spectacular display of reverse psychology, they quickly and coldly tell you “Fine, bye” and turn away, leaving you stunned. The icing on the cake usually involves a girlfriend or mutual friend of the offender who possesses the minimum amount of perception and clarity to understand what is actually happening and intermittently chimes in with “Jesus Christ, Brad! Just let him leave! He wants to go home! Let him leave already, Brad!” like a chorus of angels. At best, you get out alive forty minutes later having made plans to hang out all day the next day starting first thing in the morning with breakfast. When the next morning comes they go on to somehow avoid becoming the asshole when they bail and text you later that day that they decided to sleep in. They’re tired, bro.

He's not just leaving. He's the leaviest man alive.

But guess what? There’s a way around this whole nightmare and it’s called The Irish Goodbye. You don’t say a word and just leave. You skip the bullshit and go about your business. It’s one hundred percent anonymous and it’s glorious. Plus, it’s fun in a juvenile way you’re less and less able to check in with as you get older. It’s also fun to imagine everyone’s faces as they arrive at the conclusion you just up and took off like thirty to forty five minutes after it’s actually happened. The beauty of The Goodbye is that it puts all the pressure of being an asshole back onto the very clowns that necessitated the need for its invention to begin with. How pissed are they willing to be days later, especially over something so stupid? It’s their call, but it won’t be worth it. The Irish Goodbye’s sheer balls and total stupidity render its victims defenseless. Sometimes they don’t even notice you left at all, instantly erasing the need for any kind of explanation or apology.

I’ve been a practitioner of The Irish Goodbye since college, before I even knew it by name. Initially, it feels strange and wrong. However, the guilt quickly evaporates and is replaced by fun. The Irish Goodbye is not particularly suited for small gatherings, but you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, and it’s better than enduring a useless night any longer than you have to. The world would be easier if we chose not to be confused or offended by The Goodbye. If we chose to embrace that each person’s exits and entrances were in their best interest and none of our business.

Don’t be just another victim.

I’m Ben Seeder, and I endorse The Irish Goodbye.




Thursday, July 10, 2014

Nostalgia: A Chicken Salad Sandwich That Was Better Before You Ate It

By: Kelly McClure


Being nostalgic was something I always thought of as embarrassing, or reserved for people in oatmeal commercials. When I went to high school between the years of 1992 and 1995 in Southern California, I had a best friend who I learned everything from - how to drink, how to crawl out of bedroom windows, how to smoke drugs, and how to look at people who look back on their high school years, or any years, with fondness as being losers. I got it in my head somehow that talking too long about things from the past meant that you were stuck there, and that your current life was just a holding pattern. A large glass tank filled with warm goo where you sat and replayed the same movie in your head while you waited to die. Part of me still believes this, just like part of me still believes that buying band t-shirts anywhere other than at a show is cheating, but then the other part of me has been experiencing full body goosebumps listening to Janet Jackson songs, so I guess it's beyond my physical control.

Sometimes I'll be sitting in this one chair in my apartment that is my special reading chair and I'll look out the window and the light will be a certain way that reminds me of how the light looked outside of my teenage bedroom window. It goes beyond the light "looking" that way, it will "be" that way. My oldish eyes will zone out and deaden, looking out this window, and the inside of my flesh prison, all the parts that matter, will be in a different time. It's sad and creepy and amazing, like being able to hear ghosts by holding a seashell to your ear, or re-watching moments of your life by sticking your head in a hollowed log. My favorite lesson learned while growing into whatever manner of adult I currently am is that almost nothing in life matters like how we think it does. Depending on what mood I'm in this scale of knowledge can tip to "nothing matters, everything is hollow and pointless, and we'll all gonna die anyway so who cares," or, as it has been doing lately, over to "a person's life has certain events that only happen once, like high school, getting a first car, moving away from parents. Having parents. My life had those events. And now they're done."


Chewing the idea of parts of my life being over, like items ticked off some list, has caused me to develop a few funny habits. I wait days, sometimes weeks to open packages that I get in the mail because having whatever's in the package is not as good somehow as having the package itself to open. It takes me longer to finish meals because having eaten an amazing chicken salad sandwich is not as good as having a chicken salad sandwich on a plate in front of you. I find myself wanting everything to slow down. As nonchalantly as I'm able, I'm pressing my heels into shit. Pulling back the reigns in as "whatever, who cares" way as I can muster on my life. The ONLY one I'll have. As far as I know.

When I lived at home, with my parents, there was a small, dusty, white AM/FM radio that my Mom kept in the bathroom. She hung her necklaces and baubles on the antennae, and the dial was always tuned to a local oldies station. I referred to the music that this station played as "serial killer music" and made a big production of shutting my bedroom door when it was on, and changing the dial to MY music (KROQ, natch) when I was in there taking a shower, or getting ready to go skin goats or whatever the hell I had planned that day. Flash forward many years later, because life loves nothing more than to kick your ass so hard your molars vibrate, I spend all my money collecting this "serial killer music." It's all I want to listen to. It's not quite as good as being able to put my ear to a shell and hear a ghost, but it's as damn close as I can get.


Bonus nostalgia: A few weeks ago I cried when I saw a picture of a Boglin on a friend's Instagram. I wanted one so bad when I was little and my Mom wouldn't buy me one. I pumped up the dramatic in Toys R Us once by carrying one around crying and singing made up love songs to the box, but it didn't work. I never had a Boglin.

Fucking oatmeal, you know? Fucking Goddamn oatmeal.

@ WolfieVibes 

Monday, July 7, 2014

Joel Osteen’s Tweets Inspire Me and I Don’t Want to Hear Any Shit and I Don’t Give A Shit

By: Ben Seeder

Consider all of the messages that are sent to your brain through social media every single day. At their core, they will be boiled down to one of the following categories:

“I’m angry!”
“Here are pictures of my food!”
“Do you see how well I am doing?”
“My life is falling apart”
“Other people are idiots and I am not!”
“I’m sad!”
“The universe is one way and I want it to be the other!”
“I have friends!”
“Here are pictures of my children!”
“I’m having so much fun!!!!!”
“My life is definitely, definitely not falling apart”
“The Top 15 Roseanne moments you DON’T remember and why it COULD cost you your diploma”

In the end, almost all these different categories are in fact sub-categories stemming from one single underlying, unending message:

“Validate Me.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure this out, and when I post things I’m absolutely no different. Nobody is.

Now, amongst this vast ocean of sadness and despair, imagine a man from Houston calmly transmitting these messages to you...true, and clear as a bell:

“Today, choose to be happy. Choose to be grateful for the day. Choose to look on the bright side.”

“Even when it’s uncomfortable, even when you don’t like it, stay in peace. When you do that, God will use it to your advantage.”

“God has made you a masterpiece. Start seeing yourself strong, healthy, accomplishing your dreams, and living.”

“As long as you’re comparing yourself to others, you will never feel good about yourself. Run your own race.”

“God knows how to get you to your destination. Take your hands off the wheel and let Him take you where He wants you to go.”

“You’ll be fine when you know that you don’t have to impress people.”

“If you keep replaying your hurts and bad breaks, you’re never going to heal. It’s time to change the channel and think positive.”

“The first place you lose the battle is in your own thinking.”

“If you’re alive, you’re not an accident. No matter how good or bad your situation is, God has a destiny for you to fulfill.”

…and, my personal favorite:

“You were never created to live an average, get-by life. You have royalty in your blood. Winning is in your DNA.”

Certainly when walking the streets of LA there is no overabundance of people accusing me of being a masterpiece or having winning in my DNA. Nor are there people encouraging me to take my hands off the wheel and let God drive. But these tweets tell me otherwise, and they are a welcome and inspiring change of pace from the cesspool that is normally dumped into my brain by the truckload every time I check one of my accounts.

The man I have to thank for this foresight and wisdom is in fact Houston gentleman and mega-church televangelist Joel Osteen. To this day, I can’t recall how his tweets were first brought to my attention. It’s possible that one of my friends ironically re-tweeted him as a joke and I followed him from there, but it’s also possible that one of his tweets were sponsored and ended up in my feed that way. Possible even still is the chance that they were sent my way by divine intervention. Regardless, what began as a joke has quickly taken on a meaning of much deeper significance. They relax and inspire me and I find myself checking in with them often.


But who actually is this strange Osteen whose philosophies now guide my moral compass, what with his teeth and messages of hope, acceptance and perseverance? A brief look at Joel’s Wikipedia page gives a by-the-numbers but nonetheless interesting account of all the major milestones of his life and career.

Texas born and bred, Osteen began preaching the week after his Dad died. Very quickly amassing a following with his natural charm and smooth delivery, Osteen opted for a more positive, uplifting approach to The Word as opposed to the fire and brimstone methods so in vogue with preachers in east Texas at the time. Fast forward some years and three best selling books later and Osteen will not be stopped. He’s preaching in the old Houston Rockets stadium in front of tens of thousands and being transmitted to hundreds of thousands more worldwide. He’s preaching at Yankee Stadium and selling it out. He’s advising the President on a regular basis. In short Osteen is on fire, but he’s also got a tough line to walk. He’s got to be liberal enough for the masses, his publishers, etc., but conservative enough for his grassroots congregation back home in Houston.

Osteen has come under criticism for welcoming gay members into his church while at the same time referring to homosexuality as a “process to be freed from”. Osteen has also dodged accusations of promoting material gain as a reward for being a good Christian, further prompted by the ten million dollar mansion he and his family currently live in.

To me, what’s particularly interesting is to think about all the creeps and charlatans Osteen has undoubtedly had to deal with, if only at surface level events like dinners, fund raisers, etc. At some point during his meteoric rise to international mega-church dominance and televangelical superstardom he, without question, had to be around something ultra shady, and I want to know what it is.

I wonder if he ever met and/or associated with Ted Haggard, the fire and brimstone Colorado Springs pastor who condemned all homosexuals to burn in Hell for eternity while quietly sneaking off for methamphetamine-fueled male prostitute bonanzas. Or Jimmy Swaggart, perhaps the biggest and most flamboyant televangelist in American history (and, interestingly enough, first cousin of Jerry Lee Lewis) who got taken down for repeatedly ordering prostitutes in the areas he knew he would most likely be recognized and caught. I can’t imagine Osteen ever being up to anything quite as sordid as those two clowns, but either way, there’s no chance he hasn’t been around at least something and I began to think about it more and more.

I’m not naturally inclined to take advice from televangelists or anyone from Houston, and you don’t become head of an empire by being a good person, so I began to feel conflicted about my enthusiasm. Then it occurred to me that one of the only other people whose quotes have been collected into a Twitter feed that I check with regularity was another thoroughly devout Christian and my main man, Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy. 


Comparing these two as writers is like comparing Michael Jordan to Craig Ehlo, but let me hit you with some of my favorite Tolstoy jams:

“Don’t despise or overly respect anyone”

“You think the person you’re angry with is your enemy, but your main enemy is the anger toward your brother that’s in your heart.”

“Do good in secret and be sorry when someone finds out about it and you’ll learn the joy of doing good for your own soul.”

“Do not make great plans, or think too much about what will result from your efforts, which seem to me as the efforts of an ant or a tiny insect. All you have to do is live your life, avoid the bad, and try to do only what is good.”

“Even in the most trivial matters, you must not allow yourself to lie.”

“The longer a person lives, the more his life will be revealed to him. The unknown becomes known, and this happens until death. At the moment of death, everything is revealed and we can understand all about this life.”

...and finally, the quote that ideologically divides these two men who are otherwise delivering such similar messages:

“A rich man lives an uncomfortable life as he is always afraid to lose his riches. The wealthier he is, the more worries he will have. A rich man can meet and be friends only with the rich, because he cannot be a real friend to the poor, for then the sin of his wealth will be too obvious.”

Towards the end of his life, when he was rich and internationally famous, Tolstoy had a hall of fame crisis of faith that lead to him contemplating his own suicide night and day, arriving at the conclusion that all of life is ultimately meaningless. He realized he was one of the smartest, most celebrated men in the world and he was miserable. Gradually, it dawned on him that the wealthiest friends he had were also the most miserable, as they were often the ones with the most idle time on their hands to sit and contemplate the inescapable and infinite black void of death that awaits us all. Meanwhile, the happiest people he knew were the serfs who worked on his land from morning until sundown. Tolstoy wondered how this could possibly be, so he disguised himself and lived amongst his serfs to see if he could figure it out. Tolstoy eventually discovered that since these serfs’ lives consisted almost exclusively of toiling the land, resting at night and observing the Orthodoxy, they were by default the closest ones to the Earth and therefore the closest to God. Once Tolstoy had this epiphany, he immediately freed all of his serfs, renounced himself from the state-officiated Orthodox church, and absolved himself of all his riches, giving much of them to a world class pile of shit named Chertkov.

Now, I’m not saying I wholeheartedly endorse all of this. If you don’t have any money bad things happen, and I don’t suggest Osteen should live in squalor to legitimize his message. Tolstoy never had to live in modern Los Angeles. And for the sake of argument, lets examine the other side of the coin. Tolstoy got to exist in a time before religion had become big business, and before a box of cereal cost seven dollars. Also, it’s necessary for the Osteens to live in a home with a more complex (re: expensive) security system to protect themselves from unwanted visitors who would be numerous, uninvited, and would certainly show up unannounced if given the opportunity. Besides, who’s to say Osteen’s not entitled to enjoy some of the benefits from writing three best-selling books? There can’t be any shortage of ambitious young pastors attempting to publish books on how to live, only in Osteen’s case people actually purchased his. I’ll additionally say that he seems harmless enough and like a really nice guy. It’s an interesting contrast though.

I stole part of the title for this piece from a line of dialogue from “Glengarry Glen Ross” by David Mamet. One of his lesser known but equally exceptional plays, called “Speed-the-Plow,” is about two Hollywood executives, one much more powerful than the other, and how they behave when things begin to fall apart. It’s hilarious and frightening and fantastic. Anyway, the paperback version begins with a passage from Thackeray that includes this:

“Which is the most reasonable and does his duty the best: he who stands aloof from the struggle of life, calmly contemplating it, or he who descends to the ground, and takes his part in the contest?...to each some work upon the ground he stands on until he is laid beneath it.”

I suppose at the end of the day, Joel Osteen’s just a dude. I should continue to read his tweets because they help me and not worry about the things he’s done or the people he’s had to associate with on the way up, especially since I couldn’t know less about it. And above all, I can’t begrudge him taking part in the contest.

You should read his tweets though, they’re fucking fantastic. For real.     





Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Don't Live in Williamsburg. Live Somewhere Else.

By: Kelly McClure


There are a lot of things to think about. One thing to think about is where you live. Two things to think about are where you live, and where you'd like to live. Three things to think about are where you live, where you'd like to live, and where's dumb to live. As in where it is dumb to live. Or better said, where it would be dumb for you to live. Williamsburg, which is a part of Brooklyn, NY. is a dumb place to live. Don't live there. You can very easily live somewhere else.

Before we start talking about why Williamsburg is a dumb place to live, let's talk about other places. As of now, I have lived in three pretty large sized cities. I've lived in Riverside, California, Chicago, Illinois, and Brooklyn, New York. 

Some things:

Riverside, California

I lived in Riverside, California between the ages of seven and 20ish. I lived there because my parents lived there. I moved out of my parents' home the week I graduated high school and rented a room in a weird divorced lady's house - also in Riverside, California. I lived there with my Mormon girlfriend. We had told the weird divorced lady that we were cousins, but she knew we were not. She especially knew this the afternoon she walked in on us having relations on her kitchen island. 
  Riverside smells like orange blossoms, magnolia trees, and malt liquor. You can rent a house there. You can own a car. Not many people have jobs there, and everyone has a house or a car it seems. It's fine. Apartments are not that much money. Just a little bit of normal money.

Chicago, Illinois 

I moved from Riverside, California to Illinois after my Mormon girlfriend cheated on me with an Italian boy named Dino. I stayed with my Aunt and Uncle in a suburb of Illinois called Barrington for awhile, but then they kicked me out for not talking to the maid. I had no interest in moving to the city, so I got a little apartment above a printer in Schaumburg, Illinois. I loved it there. I was directly across the street from Lou Malnati's Pizza‎, which is a pretty fantastic thing to be across the street from. I lived there for awhile, and then I lived in an apartment in another suburb of Illinois called Batavia. I would live in these apartments in these suburbs for about $500 a month, and then drive in the car that I owned and could pay for gas for into the city (of Chicago) to hang out and find vaginas to touch. 
  Often times I'd be out and people would make fun of me for living in the suburbs and be like "why do you want to live in the suburbs?" I'd explain that I could have my own apartment there, and have the freedom of walking to the library or wherever without having to worry about running into someone I knew, or what my bangs looked like. They never understood. Eventually I did move to the city, and it was fine, but my car got towed all the time, I had to pay a medium sized amount of money to have a sticker that said I could park on my own street, and I had to have a roommate. I was never robbed, raped, or fondled in a bad way while living in Chicago. I could go back there now and have my own apartment, and a car, and probably even rent or buy a house. I could have an apartment in any part of Chicago for under $2,000. I could move to Chicago and pretend to be rich and people would rarely discover that I'm not, because I'd easily afford an apartment in the best area, or any area, and also a car, and also money to buy things every single day. I could have a dog. I could have five dogs.


Brooklyn, New York

New York is a place that I never thought I'd live in. I had never really thought about it. I liked Chicago and thought that I would stay there forever, but then I met some girl and she wanted to move to New York, so then I moved to New York. While planning our move to New York, we did not know where to look, or what different parts of New York meant. At first we were thinking of moving to Astoria, Queens, but then we realized that Williamsburg is the place to be. We did not know what Williamsburg meant, but sitting in front of Craigslist in our Chicago apartment living room, things and words were telling us that Williamsburg was where we had to go, so we went there. 
  We (my girlfriend, and her best friend) drove in a Uhaul, with our three cats stacked on top of each other behind the front seats, from Chicago to New York in one day. I think it took us 17 hours. The trip alone cost 45 million dollars. We arrived in upstate New York, where we were gonna stay with my GF's mom until we found a place, slept, and then set out the next morning in her car to find an apartment. The Uhaul filled with all the stuff belonging to three people had to be taken to a Uhaul place the next day, which meant we had one day to find an apartment. 
 We drove into Brooklyn to check out a place in East Williamsburg and we thought it was Williamsburg because it had the word "Williamsburg" in it. We were all very hot and cranky, looked inside of a place that was basically as large as the inside of my mouth, and then gave a man 198 billion dollars to rent it. We had to give all the money we had, all the money our parents had, all of our bank statements and tax records since birth, and then our fathers had to talk to a man on the phone. Then we got the apartment. Once we were all moved in we realized that the living room area of our new apartment was not even big enough to fit a couch. We had one chair in the living room that we all fought over for six months, then we all hated each other and moved somewhere else.
 I live in Crown Heights, Brooklyn now in a studio that's about the same size as the first ever apartment I had by myself in Illinois. It's $1,100 and my girlfriend pays half. It's fine. We feel lucky. We mostly don't want to live in New York anymore because we'd like to have grass to mow and multiple rooms, but I secretly love it here for some reason because I'm an idiot who thinks I'm floating around inside of some book somewhere. You have to be a millionaire to afford all of the things you could have anywhere else, in New York. 



The other day I found a listing for an apartment in Williamsburg that someone had posted on Facebook. The listing was for a one bedroom apartment near the area where I shared one chair with two other girls in Brooklyn. Apparently East Williamsburg is just Williamsburg now. The pictures of the apartment listed were gorgeous. There were different rooms. A few windows. Counters. The price for the apartment was listed at $3,200. I saw that number and something inside of my head popped. Like a little pimple saw (one trillion dollars and all of your new shoes) being asked for this apartment and it went "oh nooooooooo" and popped. The pimple in my head pictured the people who will read this add and think "It has windows!!!!" and then give a man all of their money to live next to five 99cent stores above a row of dumpsters. Someone will read this add and think how cool it will be to live next to so many white people and hat stores. Next to a Dunkin Donuts. Next to where the Editor in Chief of Buzzfeed lives. Next to where they film Damages. They will read this and think "This is It! I've made it! My life is a postcard of a blog's homepage!" 

Do not move to Williamsburg. You can live literally anywhere else and be better off. I promise you. You don't have to take my word for it, just know that I am right. You will be poor. You will want to go places and do things but you will not have fun there because all the hats and the shirts and the little dogs will be there. You will not have an air conditioner. You will not be able to buy anything. You will have a bike and it will be stolen. You will have to replace your iPhone five times. You will be a cliche. 

Live in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is amazing. Just live in it better. Keep some of your money for yourself. Be the kind of Brooklyn that hates the type of person who would WANT to live in Williamsburg. No REAL New Yorker is dumb enough to only have one chair.