Acne Update: (as if you care)
My skin is back to it's original, clear state, and cheese is once again a staple in my diet (along with coffee, cream, meat, wine, vodka, etc.) thanks to Doxycycline working miracles. Why I didn't just go back on doxy the first time around blows my mind. The doxy stopped any new zits from forming the moment I started taking it, and the cysts that could still be felt under my skin that had persisted through almost four months of spironolactone treatment have subsided into nothingness after only 3 weeks of doxy. I mean, I almost passed out one day on the F train due to nausea that was so terrible I thought I was going to faint, but at least my skin is clear :D :D :D :D There is a saying my sister always used when she was putting eyeliner on my lower lash line for dance recitals when I was but a young girl of 8: "Beauty is pain." Ah yes, those words still ring true today. lol.
I will say, however, that nothing is more embarrassing than when you're on a crowded train and start sweating profusely, get weak in the knees, and start dry-heaving. The only thing worse is actually vomiting in a train station (yes, I have been there also... I keep it classy guys ;) ). I took my meds at an unusually early hour after getting NO sleep one night and taking the pill on an empty stomach at 6:30am, and the results were not OK. If you've ever passed out, you'll know what I'm talking about when I describe the feeling of the corners of your vision getting black and the sweat that starts dripping down your forehead and how your whole body goes tingly and weak. It's one thing to feel like this in the safety of co-workers and/or friends (yes, I passed out once when I was working part-time at Claire's in college... but at least I got to leave my shift early), but it is quite another to feel this way in the already grimy and scary atmosphere that is the NYC subway. I was forced to get off at 34th street and sit on the nasty, wooden bench, dry-heaving as men in suits walked by me with concerned looks on their faces. I should have just called out of work right then and there since I felt like I was about to die... alas, I still went in after calling my mom. You know the situation is bad when you feel so sick that you call your mother crying despite the fact your a grown-ass adult. My poor mom... The only other time I've had to de-board a train mid-journey was the day I vommed sitting next to two bums on a grimy, wooden bench after I drank two bottles of wine on an empty stomach. WORST HANGOVER EVER... I would NOT recommend to anyone.
I am going home next weekend for the first time since Christmas. I'm pretty excited to have some quality time with my brother and cousin and friends. I can't wait to cook for my parents, see my son (Bijou) and baby (Ceely), and wake up to a pot of already made coffee... the best part about being home is definitely being spoiled by my parents. I'm happy I don't go home regularly anymore, otherwise they might take my visits for granted and not treat me so well... jk (but not really). I am sure my mom and dad will cook me all of my favorite things (London Broil on the grill, crab cakes, chicken dumpling soup... OMG, salivating at the very thought). Nothing says 'true love' the way food does. I think this is where I get the cooking gene. They always say the best way to a man's heart is thru his stomach, but I find that the best way to show people how much you appreciate and love them is to cook for them in general (yes, even if you're just making me Easy-Mac or a PB&J sandwich it probably means you love me).
It will also be nice to actually have off a real "weekend" since my "weekends" have been consisting of Monday/Tuesdays the past couple of months. I think the last time I had a legitimate weekend was last summer when I went to see NIN and took off a Saturday and Sunday together. I don't really know what a weekend feels like anymore... especially not one spent with people who are also simultaneously off with me. I haven't even had two days in a row off with my boyfriend in over a month.... :D #blessed. GOD I LOVE HIS JOB :D :D :D :D :D :D (in case you didn't already know :D ).
In other news, I live a boring ass life.
In other, other news, I'll leave you all with some slutty selfies and a lil' story I wrote.
First The Story:
Once upon a time, (yes, that's how every great tale of woe begins...), there was a big, fake-titted, fake-silicon-worm-lipped maiden who worked at a strip club and also as a "VIP bottle hostess." Her name was Candy, Candy Cane. She claimed she was 22, but everyone knew bitch was AT LEAST 32 (and that is being generous). Maybe the two silicon, bolt-on, Frankenstein, titty-sacks on her chest were 22, but she sure as hell was NOT. Like a bicycle, she'd been around the block numerous times, and she knew exactly what was up. In addition to "VIP bottle waitressing," she also moonlighted as a high-paid escort; she flew on private jets, lived in one of the most exclusive NYC hotels (I know... right???!!!), and regularly went on "solo" vacations to luxury destinations like Dubai, the Cayman Islands, Paris, etc. How she afforded such luxuries on a "bottle waitress salary" really blew the minds of her friends, because clearly she never admitted the truth. The truth being that she made the bulk of her money peddling her beat-up pussy around the financial district of NYC. If you meet a 55 year old, overweight dude driving a Maserati or some other sports car, and if this dude works downtown or owns a series of steak houses around the world, chances are, he has fucked Candy.
But you know what? At least she wasn't tied down. In fact, she was using men to her own, personal gain the way they used her- just in different ways. Candy had her freedom, and through her sluttiness, she was able to support herself, travel the world, meet new people. discover new things, and live in perfectly content luxury compared to most of the other single girls her age she knew. Unlike the others, at least she wasn't slaving her life away at a job she fucking hated, making only enough money to make ends meet. At least she wasn't tied down to some boyfriend who was never fucking home and when he was home was still working and didn't pay attention to her. At least she was traveling the world at the expense of someone else. She didn't have to scrimp and save for a vacation; dude's flew her to exotic locals just so they could smother themselves in her fake breasts (Please note- if a man is ever into this look, he is not a classy man at all). So what if she slept around? So what if she looked like a monkey with two inflated earthworms on her face and two inflated life-rafts on her chest? She was happy and thriving... while most were not.
In another room, in another part of town, in another realm of twisted reality, was the very opposite sort of girl from Candy...
Eleanor sat alone listening to Nirvana, drinking an expensive, red wine better suited for a dinner party than solitude and a laptop. She was contemplating jumping off of her terrace. She had a pretty nasty coke comedown... I suppose that explains her suicidal tendencies at the moment that this story is unfolding. In addition to a heavy intake of coke, she also indulged in adderall the entirety of the week preceding up to the time and date upon which this story is meant to be taking place. Let's just say- she was fucked in more ways than one... and none of them were sexual (sadly)... She was sleep deprived, depressed, in the midst of one nasty comedown. To put it bluntly, she was basically like 50% of all young New Yorkers at any given time. She was one of the masses, even though she liked to think she was special. She was trying to be special, and just coming out generic. She was low-down, wanna be intellectual, creatively crippled hipster trash.
This wasn't her first rodeo and it wasn't her last. She basically hit this low every-other-week following a night of partying and recreational drug use. The ultimate New York high followed by the ultimate New York low. She didn't really even know why she lived in New York anymore... her acting career was going nowhere, she hadn't been on one audition in the past year and a half. The job she had to pay her rent was the very bane of her very existence, and even her relationship made her sad... She felt as though she was never enough. But that wasn't anyone's fault but society's... yeah man, society... SOCIETY SOCIETY (she was having a Christopher McCandles moment...).
Thank fucking God for the adderall in her kitchen cupboard she thought... otherwise she might not wake up nor would she be thin. It was a pitiful living situation, if you could even call it living. Merely "existing" was the term she most preferred. She remembered the most beautiful days... the days when she was young enough that none of the material things mattered... her job didn't matter because youth was on her side then. When she first moved to this city, full of dreams, full of hope and possibilities, full of love... things were different. She was a different girl and she had the world by the balls. Now she was consumed by hatred. Hate for almost everyone around her, hate for her life, and hate for herself. She hated herself for working so hard just to get by, and in turn, putting her dreams on a back-burner. If only there was a way to pay bills and do what she loved without selling herself or becoming one of the Candys of the world, life would be so effortless and carefree.
One fine day, Eleanor stumbled across a dominatrix ad whilst job searching on Craigslist. She decided to answer just for the hell of it to see if she would get a response. Sure enough, she did get a response. For even though Eleanor had nothing real going for her, she was still pleasing on the eye and men loved her.
And so it was that little Eleanor became a cold-hearted, domineering bitch who beat naked men with a riding crop for money. One day, Eleanor actually decided that she wanted to be a man. She started dressing like one and even going out as one. She was inspired by Bruce Jenner, whom was the only cast member of "Keeping Up With The Kardashians" that she ever really took a liking too. "If ol' Brucey can come out of the closet and openly live his life as a woman, than by God, I can live my life as a man!" she thought.
On a beautiful summer night, Eleanor (who now went by Ethan) was making the rounds in Meatpacking. She had become a club-scene-kid-type-regular. In fact, women and gays flocked to her more than they did to Amanda Lepore. Yes, Ethan (formerly known as Eleanor) had stolen the hearts of gays, MDMA users, silicon-titted slutbags, and club kids the world over. She was an Instagram sensation!!!!! Shit, she he, almost had more followers than Miley F*cking Cyrus. Anyhow, I digress...
One night, Ethan was making the rounds downtown. First she hit up Le Bain, than it was onto STK, and finally she went toooooo (drum roll please...) DDDDDDDDddddddDDDdddddddddl.......... TAO!!!! Yes, ladies and gents, he ended up at Tao, the most preferred club/restaurant of gold-diggers and old, rich men the world over. At this point, Ethan (pronounced E-taan), had made a name for himself. He was "Instagram" famous, and got all manner of free shit from brands looking for a spokesperson. As known as he was though, Ethan was technically not rich, although people were fooled into thinking he was given the fact that he dressed in expensive, custom tailored jeans and jackets, the finest Italian calf-leather shoes, and got the VIP treatment everywhere he went. Well, the point is, that on this fine night in June, Ethan met Candy. YES- Candy Cane. Candy Cane was a fame whore/gold digging bitch and was fooled by the finery that caressed Ethan's slender frame. She followed him on the gram and knew that he traveled to all the hottest spots, dined at the finest restaurants, and generally assumed he was rich. She had no clue that Ethan was once a girl, and that she actually used to work with Ethan at the club where she bottle waitressed. Ethan was the bathroom attendant back then... just a lowly, albeit pretty, bathroom attendant in the women's room. Even though Candy did not recognize Ethan, Ethan surely knew Candy and decided to play a game by leading her on. You see, Candy used to always steal Ethan's lollipops, tampons, and use the free hairspray and NEVER ONCE did this bitch tip poor, poor Ethan (whom was still Eleanor back then).
Ethan got a table for the two of them, and made sure to order a fucking parade of Doms with ALL THE SPARKLERS... aLL THE FUCKINg SParkLERS!!!!!! YES. He ordered the most expensive things on the menu for Candy, even though he knew she was the type that would take one bite of each course before spitting it secretly into her napkin and then hiding it in her clutch. Yes, sadly Candy had a serious chew-and-spit eating disorder (although you'd never actually realize how thin she was because her ginormous breasts were very deceptive and made onlookers think she was curvy). Poor Candy. She was the most insecure girl you'd ever meet- which is why she sold her body and got monthly injections of botox at the "tender age of 22."
Anyhow, Ethan roofied Candy's champagne. Once Candy was falling asleep at the dinner table, Ethan told one of the fine Tao bottle servers to call a car service and slipped her a $400 tip for doing so (I know, I know... Ethan isn't rich.. he used fake bills). The car arrived and Ethan took Candy home. Home being a ghetto-fab loft he shared with 3 other dudes in Bushwick. Hey!- I told you, he isn't actually rich... he just gets a lot of freebies and therefore seems rich. Anyhow, Ethan took Candy into his room and tied her up. When she awoke 12 hours later, (remember now kids, she was roofied...), Ethan asked her "Do you know who the f*ck I am??? What's my mother fucking name bitch?" Candy was dumb-founded. And then Ethan stripped naked and she realized he was a woman. Then Ethan got up in her face so that they were nose-to-nose. "Do YOU KNOW WHO I AM NOW????" GASP! "Like, OMG, Like, You used to be a bathroom attendant at the club!" Ah Ha!
Now that Candy knew what was up, Ethan could execute his plan with maximized satisfaction on his end. Ethan buzz-cut Candy's hair, pulled off her fake eye lashes, pulled off her acrylic nails, and put a mirror in front of her on the floor. She was still tied to the end of his bed, and she was forced to stare at her own reflection in the mirror. She started sobbing. "Well, that's enough damage for today... I really shouldn't do anymore harm" Ethan said. And with that, he chopped her head off with a pair of fabric scissors and dumped her sad, fake body down the garbage shoot. The end.
My favorite outfit ever, still going strong after a year.
Last summer... selfie noir.
In other news, I'm going to three awesome concerts this summer (ACDC, U2, and Incubus) and currently planning a three day, Woodstock Bender. That's about the only thing keeping me going right now. I give up on finding another job. I will die penniless, and alone, wearing Mollister clothes.
