Peak Internet: I Hate Everything

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

They’re playing baseball in McCarren park and I am immediately hit with the dusty smell of my childhood: dirty gloves, pebbles in bat bags, the tawny stains of decomposed granite on any fabric that would take it. How wonderful it was to be on that field. No distraction from the task at hand. No thoughts beyond trying to not look like the worst girl on the team. Life extended no further than your mitt. One thing at a time. That’s all.

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Felling the Wood: Tinder Sucks

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

‘Here’s a story: Girl walks into a bar. Girl sees her friends. Girl walks straight towards her friends because, man, these people are awesome! Girl orders a drink, talks to her friends, gets drunk with her friends. Girl lets the world disappear around her because she is so focused on having a great time. Girl leaves the bar, having not done one scan of the place looking for someone to, I don’t know, even make out with. Girl is single forever because she never took the time to look around the room. Ever.

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“(Dinner) Party of One”

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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.

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“Older. Wiser. Dirty. Thirty” on Lady Clever

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I write to you from the edge of my twenties, my last week before I hit the big 3-0, Monday, March 24th.

As a kid, I’m not sure what I expected this time to look like, whether I would have been married for six years by now or had kids already wondering what they were going to be when they “grew up,” but I’m absolutely positive I did not imagine this: Sitting at the window of my office, looking out onto the salt-crusted, barren- tree-lined street of my New York neighborhood, employed to talk about things such as the significance of getting older. No, this is not what I imagined at all.

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“Note to Selfie” on Lady Clever

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Amy is hovering over me while I flip through the photos on my iPhone, passing tiny cubes of Brooklyn sunsets, Internet screengrabs, and a rather embarrassing number of what I would like to call “meaningful selfies.”

“Whoops, ugh, sorry. That’s totally annoying,” I say, quickly scrolling past the images I took that morning, camera held high above my bed in an attempt to document the groggy aftermath of a pretty big night out — hand wrapped around face, bare leg draped over the bed, blurry and out of focus. You know, uh, art? Because Amy is a good friend she says something to the tune of, “No, I love it! It’s great!” forfeiting an opportunity for game judgment and eyeball rolling.

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“Taking Permission with Love” on Lady Clever

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…it got me thinking about mimicry in love, and the effect of the concept of “permission” in relationships when we get desperate—again—enough. At a certain point, dating feels like walking through a neighborhood Ralph’s, filled with big name brands and bleached white bread when all you want is a real peach off a real tree, some butter churned by hand. But you’re not going to get this in this proverbial Ralph’s, so you look for the next best thing: Some “peach pie” ice cream. That’ll have to do, you think. This is the best it’s going to get. And so you sit down with a spoon and some sticky fingers, never even thinking to just leave the damn store.

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“TKO: Relationship Round Two” on Lady Clever

CLAY LISTONThe following is an excerpt from a piece seen on Lady Clever:

They’re standing in the corner of a darkly lit room, two older men in the same v-neck cardigan pulled over a button-up shirt — the financier’s uniform. “Jenny Bahn,” I hear from the taller of the two, the one with the blue eyes and the salt-and-pepper hair. Jeh-nee Bahn. My name delivered in a slight Spanish accent and the winking familiarity of someone you’ve been naked with once. I haven’t seen him since last April, back when we spent the weekend at a sprawling estate somewhere in the Hamptons with a university professor, a celebrity journalist, and a model from Germany. Because of what did or did not transpire in the weeks following, I’m not supposed to like him.

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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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“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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