“Kate Upton for Sports Illustrated, or Dear God, Why Do You Hate Muni Zubir?” on The Style Con

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The following is a letter to God from Muni Zubir, a self-educated nine-year-old living in a very small, very poor, very made-up country that is not America. This, of course, is not a real letter, and this boy is not a real boy. It, like God, is made up.*

Dear God,

Excuse me. My English is not very good many times, but lady on FOX News said that Santa Claus is white and American and so I guess God is white and American. So I will write you this letter in American English so you understand it. Yes, White God. Thank you. Oh, my name is Muni Zubir. I live in country they make Disney movies about with dancing cats. But in my country there are no dancing cats. The cats here are sad because they are hungry. They do not dance. But you know that. Because you are God.

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“Mirian Haney: From Nada to Prada” on The Style Con

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The following is an excerpt from my piece “Mirian Haney: From Nada to Prada” on The Style Con:

Sign of the times? California newcomer Miriam Haney started out in late 2013 already beating the industry at its own game, arriving freshly shorn, all bangs and no baggage – just how I like ‘em. Six months later, she’s growing that shit out. Nada to Prada-ing in reverse, as it were. Which begs the question: Is short hair over?

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“A Stud. A Shave. A Statement: Date Masamune” on Harry’s Five O’Clock

DateMThe following is an excerpt from my piece on Date Masamune, as seen on Harry’s Five O’Clock Mag:

Hailing from a long line of Japan’s daimyo (think territorial lords that basically had a monopoly on the island’s real estate game), Date Masamune was set up for a silver spoon type of existence, fattening off the spoils of his inheritance. But from a very young age, Masamune had his eye on something more. And when we say “eye,” we mean eye. One. The legendary general lost sight in one of his peepers after a childhood battle with smallpox, lending him the fearsome visage of a Bond villain.  

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“A Valuable Lesson in Being Yourself” on Lady Clever

tumblr_mh3g08XCbg1qa70eyo1_500The following is an excerpt from my piece “A Valuable Lesson in Being Yourself,” as seen on Lady Clever:

All the blood has begun to drain from my head, across my chest, through my arms, down my legs, and into my feet, where the energy that I imagine I am made of disappears through the cracks in the floor of this dark room. And so I stand, an empty tin can of a girl, lightheaded and speechless. I don’t know what I expected the answer to be when I asked the boy who never asked me to brunch what it was about me that wasn’t enough. You don’t normally ask loaded questions like this. But when you’re drunk and feeling the sting of rejection like a fresh, red welt, this is precisely the question you ask.

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“TIME Made an App That Just Gave Me Acute Anxiety” on Lady Clever

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The following is an excerpt from my piece “TIME Made an App That Just Gave Me Acute Anxiety” as seen on Lady Clever:

TIME Can Predict Your Perfect Marriage Date” reads the title, quickly followed by an article that proceeds to talk about how Facebook makes us so unhappy, what with all that wretched “compare and contrast” business going on. Jim Bemis’ posh life in London, Jackie Gabriel’s nearly enviably “job” as a groupie: It’s impossible to not notice where other people are in their lives and where you are not. Facebook is the canvas with which we paint self-portraits, largely in mistaken relation to other people and signed agreeably in our own blood.

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“A Suicidal Single Fashion Girl Valentine’s Day!” on The Style Con

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The following is my piece “A Suicidal Single Fashion Girl Valentine’s Day!” as seen on The Style Con:

Valentine’s Day. I hate it just as much as you do. You, that lonely dejected person reading this sentence through tears, staring at the glowing surface of your MacBook Pro while a damp film blurs your vision, your whole world a runny painting of absolute sadness. You, that depressed sack who sobs at the sight of heart-shaped boxes filled with cheap American chocolate wrapped in waxed paper. You, who cringe at the sight of hand-holders, bristle at love songs, long for an end. Singular. Lonely. You.

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“A Man. A Mustache. A Mantra: Alexander Shaler” on Harry’s Five O’Clock Mag

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The following is an expert from my regular column on Harry’s Five O’Clock Magazine, “A Man. A Mustache. A Mantra”:

If wartime had an equivalent in the corporate ladder, General Alexander Shaler was the type who shimmied up that thing so fast, all you had to do was blink and he was suddenly your boss. The expertly mustachioed man had a reputation for wise military maneuvering and intelligent instruction. Never one to go easy on his charge, Shaler was the type of drill sergeant that gave the term its chops. The general asked a lot of his men, and his men gave freely in turn. Because – as many of you reading this in the confines of a centrally heated office probably know – a good boss is a boss you want to work for, even if you go home feeling like you’ve been rung out like a wet towel.  

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“Tax Season: Taking Account” on Lady Clever

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The following is an excerpt from my piece “Tax Season: Taking Account” as seen on Lady Clever:

It’s here again — this familiar melancholic moment: Knees bent unforgivingly over the wooden floor of my living room, brows furrowed in mean concentration, shoulders pinched together in a manner sure to give me medical problems later in life – a permanent hunchback, a crushed vertebrae, some ailment my mother tried to warn me about that I, as her daughter, dutifully ignored. My hands move tiny crumples of paper from one pile to the next, organizing the last 365 days of my life into monetized memories.

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“NYFW Casting #134,912” on Lady Clever

nyfw-1024x708The following is an excerpt from my piece “NYFW Casting #134,912” as seen on Lady Clever:

The girl standing outside can’t figure out how to work the intercom. I come in quickly, overriding her ineptitude for the sake of time, efficiency, and the fact it feels like 10 degrees in New York right now. Having easily seen the name of the client marked clearly on a button, I press with a gloved finger. Someone on the eighth floor lets us in, the door unlocking with a buzz. “You’re better at this than I am,” she says. Heaven help me.

Four tiny girls share a tiny elevator and disembark into a room already filled with so many models I force myself to not turn on my heel and leave immediately. After all, you can’t book work if don’t stick around. That’s part of the job. But fashion week castings are especially tedious, with lines not dissimilar to the ones you’ll find outside Apple before a product launch. Only the difference is that the people at the front of an iPhone 7 line, who have demonstrated patience and fortitude and motivation, will walk away with something. You could be the first one at a casting, wait for three hours, and still go home empty handed. Every casting is like a lottery ticket. Sometimes you win, most times you don’t.

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“Talking to Myself, Naturally” on Lady Clever

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The following is an excerpt from my piece “Talking to Myself, Naturally” as seen on Lady Clever:

I’ve been talking to myself a lot lately, probably because I’ve been quite sad over the last few months, and you can only burden your friends with the same old story so many times before they start ignoring your calls and opting to brunch with a more reliably chipper friend. My tolerance for myself, however, is, as one would imagine, remarkably higher. This habit, which I myself recognize as being slightly bizarre, can be blamed specifically on one thing: Living alone. If I had a roommate, I wouldn’t be crazy enough to show myself as the real lunatic I am. And if I had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t be experiencing these things that cause me to talk to myself in the first place. Is this what they call a Catch 22? I don’t know. Probably not. I don’t trust 50% of myself at the present moment.

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