“The Bedroom Apocalypse: Sex Robots Might Eventually Replace Sex Workers”

5102-sex-robots-new-study-says-prostitution-makeover

The following is a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

The future is now, sluts!

Nothing screams “Yes! Yes! Yes!” quite like the cold, bloodless flesh of a robot. I mean, really. I have to change my panties five times a day just to keep up with the absolute downpour going on at the prospect of banging a machine. Oh, wait. These sex robots are probably just for dudes, because chicks get all emo about their sex business and there is zero chance a robot would fall in love with her, as opposed to a real, live human, where the percentage goes up to, like, I dunno, 2.3% or something.

So sex robots are probably more for the cis dudes. Ladies, read on if you must.

 

Click here to read more.

Standard

“Ask a Lady: He Got Game?” on Harry’s Five O’Clock

videogames-02-02

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on Harry’s Five O’Clock Mag:

“To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower/ Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.” – William Blake 

Sitting across from me is a gentleman of 30-something years staring fervently at the screen of his little phone. His concentration is palpable, unwavering. With little twitches of his wrists he moves the device this way and that, drags his fingers along its smudged surface. The world around him has disappeared. He does not notice the people that come and go. Life begins and ends here: In a video game. Yeah, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I’m pretty sure William Blake wasn’t waxing poetic about Candy Crush.

Click here to read more.

Standard

“See Like a Girl: The Importance of Corrine Day”

298662

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

There is something about the way the eye of a woman falls on one of her own kind. It is full of an awareness of experience, devoid of accidental exploitation or perplexed observance—that distanced watching of flamingos wander about a cage, beautiful birds in a gilded zoo. That knowing gaze is something documented, purposefully or otherwise, by female photographers. You’ve been there. I’ve been there. We know. All of it, encapsulated in a simple frame.

While male photographers can gamely attempt to encapsulate the experience of what it means to be girl, too often it’s a mere piecemeal projection of the various things women are capable of being. There are Steven Meisel’s powerhouse vixens, Juergen Teller’s blown-out and over-exposed icons and ingénues, Paolo Roversi’s beautiful ghosts. These all represent parts of women told in stories too brief. And no matter how close these guys come to getting it—I meanreally getting it—there is always a sense of distance, a mark just barely missed.

And then there’s Corrine Day.

Click here to read more.

 

Standard

F%*KING YOUR FRIENDS IS LIKE EATING YOUR VEGETABLES. NO ONE WANTS TO DO IT.

child_sleeping_at_table

The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

“I want that plate cleared,” Mom would say, a threat often lobbied to me and my brother growing up, which was like winning an all inclusive package to Hades, where you were never just given the option to consume things a la carte, but in horrible little packages, where a nice bit of chicken was permanently married to a heap of steamed broccoli. They were to go down together, in twos, if you were ever to think of sticking a spoonful of dessert in your mouth. And so you’d down it, the vegetative gristle of the broccoli grinding against your molars, coating your tongue with its unpleasant moss. And I would do it, if for no other reason than to get my mom off my back. Eat your vegetables. There is nothing more ubiquitously traumatic and universally understandable than this phrase.

Click here to read more.

Standard

“(Dinner) Party of One”

alone-book-girl-miranda-july-vintage-Favim.com-69768

The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on Lady Clever:

White and green. That’s the color scheme of Gillian’s wedding. Really deep emerald, she adds. Very country club, I offer. She tells me about the three days of dress shopping and the ball gown-esque thing she eventually settled on. Structured and formal. “Just like us,” she quips. Gillian and Nathan are getting married in November, which seems soon. But that’s probably because I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a set wedding date– a number barreling at you from the distance like a freight train, until it arrives, and you’re surrounded by your country club colors and the gold walls of an East Coast church, standing next to a dude who stuck around for more than three weeks—a dude who, in theory, wants to stick around for eternity. The concept is unfathomable to me, like asking a kid who lives in some shantytown in Johannesburg to imagine what it would be like to get on a plane and travel to America, to live in a house with central heat and air conditioning, with a pool in the backyard and a freezer filled with ice cream. So laughably far off, so hilariously implausible. That’s what this feels like.

At least for me.

Click here to read more.

Standard

“Miranda Kerr is on the Cover of GQ and I Am Sitting on My Couch: Where Did My Life Go Wrong?”

miranda-kerr-gq-may-2014-01-960x624

The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

New York Fashion Week, 2004-ish or some shit. I’m waiting backstage at the ___________ show, my skin all porcelain and wrinkle free, my eyes so full of dumb hope, my thin limbs so full of promise. “You fit in just like the other models,” the producer tells me. “You’re just like one of the New York girls!”

When you’re working in Los Angeles, you are—as my dad likes to describe the horror of being cast aside and fiercely rebuked—treated “like a redheaded step-child.” While I’m personally a big fan of the ging and bear them no ill tidings (I heard people in Australia are legitimately afraid of the fiery ones; this may or not be true. That being said, I am 50% Aus and I feel nothing inherently Redhead Resistant in my blood if that means anything at all. Which it doesn’t.) So yeah, what the hell was I talking about? COMPLEXES. MODEL COMPLEXES.

 

Click here to read more.

Standard

“Wait, So You Didn’t Want Me To Date Your Friend?”

stathes

The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

James Kennedy is lighting his cigarette outside of the glass doors of some awful bar in the West Village filled with aspirational investment bankers fresh out of college and their equally droll female counterparts. “I saw Wes the other day,” he starts, and I, immediately thinking he’s brought this up because he found out I went out with Wes the other weekend, preemptively interject with a self-aware coyness and thinly guised maliciousness. “Oh, I saw him, too,” I offer. There is an obvious wink in my voice that annoys even me, something you start pulling when you’re in elementary school and you realize what it means to be a girl. “Oh, yeah?” James Kennedy says, casually, inhaling his cigarette and not getting it yet. “No, I mean, we, like, went out.”

 

Standard

“A Song-by-Song Coachella Refusal”

AHE-380-BS_F-725x540_zps7fccefc5

The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

Dear Coachella,

I’m not going to be visiting you this year, just like I didn’t visit you last year or the year before that or the year before that. And this isn’t because you’ve turned into a very expensive shadow of what you once were. It is not because of the 18-year-olds running around with their butt cheeks hanging out, wearing fashionable boots that are 100% season-inappropriate. It’s not about the vegan trucks (love those) or the $1000 VIP passes (pretty expensive cage, no?). Nor is it about the eight hours it once took me five years ago to drive from the San Fernando Valley into the crowded Indio Polo Field parking lot, only to miss 90% of the shows and hate most of my friends for no reason.

No, it is none of these things.

 

Click here to read more.

Standard

“Instagram and Coachella: #Confused”

9282e8cac39311e3a52b24be059cbec0_8

The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on The Style Con:

Weren’t at Coachella this weekend? Great. Neither were we. But it was 70 glorious g-damn degrees in New York so who cares? Also, abstaining from what has become one of the country’s #1 shitshows probably means you don’t have one of a number of things acquired over the last few days, namely a sunburn and a fun STD. If you’re still bummed you missed out on the fashion photo opp of your lifetime a weekend of amazing music, we’ve dug through the, like, million of unfortunately tagged photos on Instagram and found the worst of the worst to suck that salt right out of the wound. These shots will make you happy you just stayed home and made your dog brunch.

Click here to read more.

Standard