The Drawing Twins

I’ve not taken a math class since 2003. When I was a senior in high school I was in what they called “Academic” Pre-Calculus. It was me and a bunch of juniors. My math teacher had crazy psoriasis. I don’t remember a damn thing, except for the texture of that TI-83 Plus calculator we had to use.

One of my main reasons for applying to graduate school for communications design is that I didn’t have to take the GRE or any other standardized test to get in. My main reason for going to art school for undergraduate was that no one seemed to care that I did shitty on my SATs. The real Hallelujah moment came after being accepted and I found out I DIDN’T EVER HAVE TO TAKE A MATH CLASS. EVER. AGAIN.

Now, imagine me, a full grown woman, who just had to use a calculator to figure out if 56 is divisible by 4. 1) It is! 2) Omg, my brain cells are dying.

I would feel bad about this, but I once asked an ex-boyfriend, who crunched numbers all day for a living, “hey, how do you find the percentage of a number?” and then he gave me the wrong formula.

Uh huh…

Still, really? 56 divided by 4? I couldn’t figure that out? It might be time to go back to my division and multiplication tables.

[[This photo is from circa 2002. My cousin (L) is now as old as I (R) was when this was taken. Holy shit.]]


I was on the L at midnight on Saturday going from 6th Ave to 1st Ave. I managed to catch it without waiting, though it appeared everyone else had been waiting 20 minutes or so, which is insane, but not unbelievable in terms of the ways the MTA fucks you with.

In any case, there was a group of teenage girls. I disliked them immediately, especially when they didn’t move all the way into the car, and then that they proceeded to link arms and sing. “Singing” is an overstatement and it wasn’t so much a song as a repeated shriek of this one strand of lyrics. “So call me maybe.” Over and over and over again.

[let’s not discuss the artistic non-merits of this video]

That was enough to send me over the edge. I had chapped lips that were making me irritable, in addition to a general level of stress that gives me heartburn. I could not deal with these happy, pubescent girls.

The train got even more packed at Union Square. Some “old” man got on with a newspaper. By “old” I mean not 90, but probably 35, but “old” in that way that single, weird, men can be. I was standing on one side of the girls, and he was on the other side of them. They kept singing. Then he said to the one, who I can only assume was half Asian, “you’re so pretty, keep singing.” He then put his newspaper under his arm, held onto the pole and stared at her with a gross little grin that implied he was going to have wonderful, wonderful dreams about her.

My face at that moment was full of incredulity. The girl looked stunned. She was also probably mortified and scared and creeped out. I know I fucking was. I looked at the guy, who was balding and short and generally unattractive and now also basically announcing to the entire train that he was a pedophile and then looked at the girl, who was now embarrassed and shamefully hanging her head. In that moment, I instantly forgave the girl for being obnoxious and instead focused all my unhappiness on the strong desire to grind my 3 inch heel into this man’s instep.

I a) hate men who feel that they can say these things to women without invitation and b) hated that I had to watch this happen. It reminded me of the times I’ve been dressed to go somewhere and am walking down the street feeling pretty good about myself, and then some troll sitting on a stoop or passing by makes some little unsolicited comment or disgusting stare down and then I feel self conscious and like I want to go home and put on a bathrobe. Women who like attention are always the first to say, “oh, but it’s harmless!”

I don’t actually think it is. I think it’s sexist. Though, I am totally okay with being oggled if it’s by someone whose oggling I welcome. So, I’m a fair weather feminist. What of it!?

Did you know rule #5 at Milk and Honey is as follows?

Gentlemen will not introduce themselves to ladies.
Ladies, feel free to start a conversation or ask the bartender to introduce you. If a man you don’t know speaks to you, please lift your chin slightly and ignore him.

This is the way the world should work. It’s not working this way. Maybe I need to spend more time drinking in swanky establishments and less time doing everything else.

Poor little half Asian teenager, I only wish you (and I) had the necessary confidence to tell that guy to fuck off. I also wish you had had a Taser and put it to use Lisbeth Salander style.

There’s always the next time, little girl.

The end.

I haven’t been drinking coffee for a few years now. When I stopped smoking incessantly, I also stopped overcaffeinating myself.

I had a cup of coffee this morning. 8 ounces. I have been lit up and bouncing off the walls for the past 10 hours. Had I known this was possible, I probably should have started drinking it sometime earlier in the semester when I would lethargically sloth around my apartment all day with little motivation.

I accomplished everything I wanted to get done schoolwork wise, which is an anomaly because I had a shit ton to do. Unfortunately, the two things left on my list after I finished school things were “EXERCISE” followed by “SHOWER”.

Is 11pm too late to work out you think? Icanttellifitisbecausewhenimalljitterylikethiseverythingseemslikeagoodidea.

How do you people do it? I feel like I am flying/on fire/having a moment in which I think I will feel like this for the rest of my life and I am kind of freaking out. Do you think I’m burning more calories right now? Am I making you wig out with how peppy this post is in contrast to my usual, sardonic and misanthropic posts?

Coffee really is magic, though I am totally starting to understand why people get massive headaches when they try to wean themselves off of it. It’s because it’s like DRUGS.

I got out of work early today and was walking through SoHo on my way to the ADA’s office and became overwhelmed with all the people.

I’ll be more specific: overwhelmed at the number of women teetering around in their heels and leaning on their mans looking like they have no place to be. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?

Answer: same people that back up into me on street corners while waiting for a light to change and body check me as they pass by on tight sidewalks. I am invisible, THANKS.

Is it me? Or is it everybody else? Also, why are these people so specially unaware? Oh my god, what if I really am invisible?

I’ve told several people lately that I’m into True Blood. I mean, I’m like 12 seasons behind, but whatever.

People seem to have this response:

is it like Twilight?

Well, I have no idea, because I don’t know anything about Twilight. My best guess is that Twilight is PG-13 True Blood.

Then comes this:

well, what is it then?

It’s like soft porn with vampires.

Men seem to be amused by this simile. My mom, not so much.

I just have to say this before I write this that I have a few Frenchies in my life who I adore, but this post is purely about the absurdity of the statement below, and how the rest of the world perceives the French as being humongous, snotty, assholes. [Now THAT, is a visual]

Anyway, I was in the elevator of my building today with a man and his school aged child. There was another woman with me too, and there are 3 doors to exit out of the building – one from the elevator, another in the foyer, and another to actually exit the building. The man let me and the other woman exit the elevator first. The kid wasn’t moving too fast, but the woman held the door for him and said “please, go first.” Then as he approached her he said “Oh no, I am French, women go first.”

Since when does saying “I am French” also imply that your manners are of the finest variety? I mostly envision France as an enormous tree-lined Parisian street where people slap each other and then storm off down the street with baguettes under their arms, so my perception has not really been that the French are known as those with the best manners. If I had to be racist and peg one culture as being very manners-oriented, it would be Chinese. Not French. Though, using your heritage as an excuse for you to do things the way you see fit? I am all about that. “I’m American” will probably go a long way for explaining why I put my elbows on the table.