I get an email from my NYC agents that I booked a job August 22nd. I haven’t worked in over a month so I was extremely happy. I book a flight through Virgin because it’s the best fucking airline in the world. Their decor doesn’t look like it’s straight out of Falcon Crest and the flight attendants are always in a good mood. There seems to be less old people and babies on Virgin flights too. There’s nothing like an old person grabbing the back of your seat to stand up, actually they’re worse than Hitler. Also, the people who immediately make a call on their phones as soon as the plane lands can go fuck themselves too. “YEAH WE JUST LANDED. WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU I’M ON THE PLANE. PICK ME UP IN 15 MINUTES.” Look, asshole, everyone is getting a ride too, why can’t you text your pal instead? I love flying, can’t you tell?
I brought High Fidelity to read on the plane. My favorite chapter is called “checking twitter for 5 hours instead.” Let’s be honest, ever since in-flight internet there’s no chance in hell any of us are reading books. I prefer drinking bloody marys and drunken twitter stalking my ex boyfriend and all the new girls he follows.
“Who the fuck is this girl? Oh, she’s ugly. Next. Who the fuck is this girl? Meh, not as funny as me. Next. Who the fuck is this? Oh, she’s married. Next.”
I’m ridiculous. I know. You don’t need to tell me.
5 drunken hours later we land. My phone blows up with non-iMessage texts, who are these schlubs who don’t own iPhones? I get quite a few distressing texts saying my friend has lost her mind, has been on drugs for two days, and is contemplating suicide. I’m a fucking basket case. I’m in New York without any way of helping her. I call her, no answer. I talk to my friend who is with her, I guess she has calmed down a little but is delirious and acting strange. I tell her to keep on eye on her overnight and I’ll check in with her the next morning. Ugh. I feel helpless. My friend texts back not to worry and she’s handing the situation. I feel a little better. I hop on the air-train to Jamaica and transfer to the E into Manahttan. It’s 10pm but it’s still 80 degrees and humid. I’m sweating more than Bruce Vilanch. I bet that guy sweats so much. I get off at Grand Central and decide to walk the 10 blocks to where I’m staying. Fuck, I missed NYC.
At about 11pm I’m hanging out reading twitter, contemplating going to bed because my call time is 9am. I get a text from Anthony asking if I’m in NY. I text him back and he asks me to meet him for drinks. I say sure. Why not, right?!?
I take a cab up to Hell’s Kitchen and skip over to him sitting at the bar. We both just laugh at each other. It’s the first time we’ve hung out since we broke up. I order a Stella and notice Anthony has two iPhones stacked on top of each other.
“So THAT’S the secret phone you were hiding from me the entire year we lived together?”
“Oh whatever! It’s ummm, okay, yes it’s the phone. I’m such an ass!”
Yes. Yes you are.
I found out about this phone from listening to Opie & Anthony a few months prior. Apparently he hid it under the mattress every night so I wouldn’t read texts from, ehem, secret people? I don’t even want to know what was going on inside of that thing. He and Jim Norton would talk about their “Good Boy Phone” and “Naughty Boy Phone.” Wonderful. Anyway. I talk with Anthony for a few hours, then we go to a shitty diner and eat french fries. I make it home by 3am-ish. I’m really good at not holding grudges, which I’m not sure is a good quality. I still listen to his show because he’ll always make me laugh. I ultimately want him to be happy because I did have a really fun time with him, and I learned how to play blackjack. That counts for something right?
I slept maybe 4 hours, I couldn’t stop worrying about my friend and the fact that I was completely helpless and 3,000 miles away. I woke up at 8 and barely could get myself out of bed. I take a cab to my shoot because I’m far too lazy to take the subway. The other model I’m working with is basically a younger version of Naomi Campbell.
I feel gross and fat. I shouldn’t have ate those french fries or drank beer last night. I’m a shitty model. The hairstylist wants to use my bangs. I hate my bangs. I’m sick of bangs. Bangs are for annoying rockabilly girls and burlesque dancers. By the way, burlesque dancers, just because you have bangs it doesn’t make you not a stripper. I really like my eyebrows, so I feel like bangs take away from them. Really interesting stuff, huh?
The shoot is about 4 hours, it goes by quickly. I miss the days of making a few months rent in a matter of hours. LA, you’re killing me. I decide to walk back to Murray Hill from Soho, but it’s fucking raining, and also it’s 90 degrees and humid. I miss humidity so much. There’s nothing quite as wonderful as being outside at midnight in the Midwest during August. But fuck the rain, I hop on the subway and go back to where I’m sleeping that night. When I’m in NYC I hate cars, how dare they impede on pedestrians! When I’m in LA I hate pedestrians, get a fucking car you losers!
My phone blows up with texts saying my friend was found on the floor in her closet curled up in a ball crying and saying she doesn’t want to live anymore. They took her to rehab, it’s fucked up. This year has been incredibly stressful, unpredictable, but amazing at the same time. It started with my drama-filled breakup with Anthony, my sister getting married, a long-distance romance via twitter resulting in me moving to LA only to break up with the guy 3 times, getting a manager and agent from tweeting about that shithead Brian Presley, moving back to NYC, moving back to LA a few days later, breaking up with a guy who basically asked me to marry him, writing a book proposal, pitching TV shows, falling in love again, and worrying about my friend in rehab.
I attract insane people, or am I attracted to them? I’m definitely intrigued by them, and part of me wishes I was as nuts as the people I surround myself with. I envy the loud, outgoing, over-the-top personalities of my friends and men I date. I like to have my mind occupied and distracted from my everyday life because I feel like I’m not at the point where I want to be. I’m really hard on myself, I need to stop that. Someone tell me to stop fucking doing that, please.
After my shoot I walk around NYC, get a slice of pizza (how New York of me) and avoid texts from people who I said I would grab drinks with. Surely the guy didn’t notice I was sending tweets instead of replying to his texts, right??? I just didn’t feel like having a good time. I was worried that I would fall back in love with NYC and regret moving to LA. I upgraded my return flight seat to first class because if you do it within 8 hours of the flight it’s only $200 as opposed to $1000. I’m really good at flying, you guys. I return to LA and am greeted at the airport by a wonderful man who is thrilled to have me back. That ends my 2 day love affair with New York City.