Backstage Bulimia

Weekly column for VICE is up…

I’m in an Italian designer’s showroom sitting on a cold cement floor at my 13th and last casting of the day. Across from me is a model who doesn’t look a day over 15. She’s reading Catcher in the Rye. (Or at least pretending to read, because models are supposed to be illiterate, right?) I shun the reams of hifalutin literature in my bag to read, once again, the email with the details for the runway show that night. The call time is 6PM. It’s now 5.30PM. I still have 20 girls ahead of me, but this job pays $2,000 so that shitty runway show for $250 plus “trade” can totally go fuck itself, for the next hour at least. I call my agent to let him know I’m going to be late to the show. He gives me sass. “You better move your ass, sweetie!”

“Sweetie”. No matter how bitchy he gets, he always finishes each sentence with “sweetie”.

A million minutes later I realise that I haven’t eaten all day and start digging in my bag like an animal for anything vaguely edible. I find a granola bar and a half-empty (or half-full, for you disgusting optimists out there) bag of M&Ms. I scarf down both like I don’t care about calories and start to get my energy back. My name is finally called and I run into the room with a huge condescending smile on my face. I do my runway walk for the designer, pose for a few photos and get the fuck out of there.

I arrive at Lincoln Center and have absolutely no clue where I’m supposed to go. The only instructions in my email are “studio tent backstage ask for Keri”. What’s a “studio tent”? Who the fuck is Keri? I wander around hoping some hot older guy will say, “Oh, you must be a model because you’re so pretty. Let me help you find where you’re going. The idea that you’d become in any way sexually obligated to me as a result of this interaction won’t even cross my mind.” Nope. Didn’t happen.

After asking guys who look like security guards where to go I find my destination. I see a sign that says “MAKEUP/HAIR” hanging on a white curtain and push through a crowd of people who are pretending to work. I know you shitheads aren’t really doing anything important, but with a job title like “production intern”, I guess you’re allowed to be as wildly arrogant as you like.

I walk behind the curtain and see 30 models sitting in chairs getting their hair done. A frantic woman holding a clipboard immediately asks my name and walks me to a chair. “This is Ivana, she’ll be doing your make-up.” Ivana puts moisturiser on my skin and asks what I’m doing for my acne. “Well, I was on Accutane last year, and I’m putting Retin-A on it now, I’m sorry it sucks,” I say, embarrassed. I feel like I always have the worst skin in the room and I’m always apologising for it. I’m horrified of people seeing me without make-up because I’ve never had perfect skin. Somehow I’ve managed to be successful with remnants of acne scars from my former life as a zit-riddled, chocolate-eating teenager. Every morning I wake up and check my skin for blemishes – sometimes they’re bad enough to make me cry and hate myself even more than I already do for obsessing over my appearance. (BRB, going to freebase some Zoloft.)

Okay, I’m back. Once my make-up is complete I’m sent to another chair, where a cute, young guy named Colin is waiting with a comb and a bottle of sea salt spray. “I’m about to tease the shit out of your hair, girl!”

He’s way too excited for this. I don’t mind my hair being curled or straightened with a burning fucking hot iron, but there’s nothing worse than teased hair. After an hour of yanking and destroying my hair, he’s finally finished. I look in the mirror and say, “Oh, OK, great, thanks,” Knowing I’m heading immediately to the bathroom to fix this mess. I look like Courtney Love if she’d ever gotten so fucked up she decided it was a good idea to do her own make-up.

I walk back through the crowd of models with my can of Diet Coke. I see a table of mini-cupcakes and my usual discipline with unhealthy food completely disappears. I grab a few (five) and find a restroom. I look at myself in the mirror, wipe some of the ridiculous purple lipstick off and scarf down the cupcakes hoping no one comes in. I hear a girl in one of the stalls coughing. Then I hear her vomit. She flushes the toilet and walks to the sink. Her hair and make-up is identical to mine.

“You OK? Sick? Need some water?” I ask, overly concerned. She shrugs, rinses out her mouth and leaves. The realisation doesn’t hit me until a few moments later. Ohhhh right, bulimia + models = duh! I’m left alone with my can of Diet Coke and mini-cupcakes like some sort of fat piece of shit neanderthal. Here I am stuffing calorie-soaked treats down my throat when I should be eating no more than three almonds. I don’t care, I’m hungry and I need food and caffeine to function properly so I don’t lose my shit and start yelling the N-word like Kramer. Maybe that’s why I hate my thighs and always feel fatter than other models. Maybe I should be puking before jobs. I feel happier when I look skinny, and depressed when I feel fat. Maybe bulimia is what’s missing from my empty, soulless, shallow life.

I finish all but one of the cupcakes and head to the dressing area. One of the many people carrying a clipboard yells to the models that it’s rehearsal time. All the girls line up next to the stage entrance still wearing their own clothes. The coordinator yells something about paying attention, but I’m not paying attention, so I have no idea what he said. He pushes us out one by one and yells critiques to the girls as they’re walking. “Straighten your back! Faster! Slower! Pose for at least three seconds at the end!” We all know how to walk, settle down.

When rehearsal is done I head over to a rack with my name and photo on it. Two outfits are hanging up with paper numbers attached to them. Nine and 23. Those are my numbers. A dresser comes running over to me and says she’ll help me put on my first outfit. I take all my clothes off except for a thong and stand there with my arms across my chest trying to keep warm. The dresser unzips the garment and pulls it over my head. It gets stuck on my hips. I wiggle like a dying mermaid and finally it goes into place. I put on the six-inch heels and practice walking. The fucking shoes keep slipping off, ugh. I put my other shoes back on and run to the bathroom to grab some paper towels.

I’m sitting on the floor stuffing it into my shoes and I see a girl from my agency. “Oh my gosh, you look so good in that dress!” She squeals. “I look like shit, YOU look amazing!” I reply, and then we compliment each other some more because that’s what models do. One of the hundred people carrying a clipboard yells to the models to get in line. The models shuffle their bony bodies over to a makeshift line and OF COURSE half of them can’t remember their numbers. ‘I’m too old for this shit’ I think to myself. I’m just tired, and hungry and ready for this day to be over.

I hear the music start. Lana Del Rey, how original. Everyone in the fashion district isn’t already using “Video Games” to make their clothing seem ethereal and unique. “Oh my gosh I love this song!” the model standing behind me shrieks. “You would” I say under my breath.

The coordinator pushes the first girl out. When I say “pushes”, I mean pushes. We are not treated like humans during a fashion show. We are personality-less dolls who have come to life for one hour only to showcase the new season of clothing that only rich old ladies can afford. After each girl returns she runs to her clothing rack and her outfit is literally ripped off of her and she’s shoved into the next look.

It’s my turn for the runway. The only things I get nervous about are falling over and looking fat. I’m shoved onto the runway and sashay my way to the end. There are so many lights I can’t see shit. I have no idea how many people are there or who is sitting in the front row, all I care about is not falling. I stop at the end and pose. And by pose I mean look like a pissed off teenager. I strut myself back to behind the stage and run to my rack. Three people are now trying to get this fucking tight-ass dress off of me. I put my arms into the air and let them do all the work. I’m standing there naked and slip into my next outfit. I grab my shoes and don’t put them on until I have to. I get back in line and wait to do it all over again.

The entire show lasts no more than 15 minutes. Days of preparation, castings and fittings all for 15 minutes. When the show ends the designer walks in front with all the models following behind. They tell us to clap, but fuck that. I’ll pretend to smile, I’ll give you that. After the finale I run back to my rack, rip off my clothes and change back into the same Rag and Bone jeans I’ve been wearing for weeks. I leave my hair and make-up how it is because I love riding the subway looking like a freak. Of course no one gives me a second look because it is New York City. When I get back to my Midtown apartment I spend an hour brushing out my hair and scrubbing the thick layer of make-up off my face. I heat up a slice of pizza because fuck it.

Fashion Week Castings

Unless you are one of the top 100 models in the world, your payment for a fashion show is equivalent to a mediocre stripper’s tips on a Monday night. Sometimes you don’t get paid actual money at all. “Trade” is the main source of currency during Fashion Week. “Trade” is when you receive clothing in exchange for work. Sometimes that $700 dress or $2000 gift card is totally worth the five hours of work, but when the designer picks out the trade for you, you’re very often left with an ill-fitting dress that was ugly and off-point seasons ago. I can’t be seen in that garbage, I’m a fucking FASHION model, for fuck’s sake.

That said, runway shows are my favourite jobs. What girl wouldn’t want to walk down a runway with 50 photographers snapping photos of her? You get to wear amazing shit from new collections and have hundreds of people staring at you while you sashay down the runway like a batshit crazy Tyra Banks.

Getting to that point is brutal, though. Here’s an account of my experience with Fashion Week castings.

At about 8PM the night before, I receive the email from my agent with a list of castings for the next day. So far there are nine addresses with a time frame letting me know when I need to be at each place. I plan out my day by google mapping each place and making a mental note of which subways I need to take and where. I drink a Corona Light and watch Project Runway. I put on my zit cream, facial moisturiser and pray that the blemishes on my chin will have disappeared by the morning.

I wake up at 9AM to an updated email with four more castings. Shit. I now have 13 places to be before 5PM. After a mini panic attack I throw on the same skinny jeans I’ve been wearing for weeks and a white, loose-fitting T-shirt that makes me look thin, but has that “I don’t give a shit what I look like (but honestly I do)” look to it. I stuff my model cards, portfolio, bottled water and heels into my oversized Alexander Wang bag, which is now so heavy I feel like I’m carrying around two dead foetuses stuffed with heavy ass rocks. I put on my wool coat and boots because it’s winter in New York, which feels like fucking northern Russia. (It’s cold there, right? All the 16-year-old models I meet from there speak like their lungs have frosted over.)

After being squished in the subway during rush hour I get off at my stop and walk five blocks before finding the first address – no elevator and it’s on the sixth floor. Fuck you. After begrudgingly making my way up the stairs, I sign my name on a list and notice I’m number 178. Ugh. I find a spot on the floor next to a cute brunette wearing leather pants with giant holes in the knees. She doesn’t look a day over 16. There are 30 other models sitting on the cold, wooden floor texting their boyfriends or whomever it is they do. I eavesdrop on two models having a conversation about their weight. “My agent says I need to lose ten pounds so I stopped eating bread,” the bleach blonde girl says in her German accent. “I’m doing Paris Fashion Week so I need to get skinny – like GROSS skinny.” Good luck with that. I recommend throwing up your breakfast, lunch and dinner to get that look, preferably immediately after you’ve taken each mouthful out onto the table of whatever uptown noodle joint your model rep is trying to groom you in. I say don’t stop puking until you’re so skinny that someone asks if you’re either dying of cancer or a refugee camp runaway.

Happily, after 45 minutes of stalking ex-boyfriends on Twitter, my name is called. I quickly put on my heels and run into the room. I hand my portfolio and model card to a girl sitting behind a table. She asks what shows I’ve done. I tell her, but halfway through my list she isn’t impressed, so I throw in a few lies, “…umm Marc Jacobs, Proenza, Rag and Bone, umm…” She cuts me off and asks to see my walk. I of course trip over my own six-inch heels but pretend like I meant to do it. She snaps my photo and says thanks. “Well I fucked that one up,” I say to myself as I walk back to the sea of anorexia to change out of my heels. Casting number one finished: 12 more to go.

I’m walking down Spring Street to the subway and my phone rings. “Melissa you booked a show tonight and they need you for a fitting ASAP, I emailed you the deets. Please hurry!” My agent hangs up before I have the chance to thank him. I check my email and see the fitting is in the Upper East Side. “That’s like, 20 minutes from where I am. Maybe I can fit in two castings on the way or… shit, they need me before noon…” I say to myself out loud, talking to absolutely no one. I decide to grab a cab because the $10 it’ll be is worth my peace of mind knowing I’ll be on time.

I make my way into the loft and see half-naked models changing into ridiculous outfits. “You must be Melissa!” The peppy young assistant yells. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” I say back to her. No one laughs. She escorts me over to the designer and he looks me up and down. He hands me a dress and tells me to try it on. There are no closets or changing rooms so I take off everything but my thong and let the girl help me squeeze into the awkward garment. My pale ass and small tits are exposed for everyone in the room to see, but I’ve done this many times by now that my level of embarrassment is basically nonexistent. I’ll be naked around a bunch of gay dudes; I don’t give a shit.

The designer looks at me in the dress. “Girl, you were made for this dress!” Was I made for it? Was I really born into this world, living my entire life preparing for this one moment where some French designer conceptualised a dress without knowing of my existence, but assuming one day I would prance into his runway show fitting and blow his mind with how perfectly his fabric contraption would drape around my hips? Maybe. Who knows. The girl takes my photo with a Polaroid camera, asks my name and writes it on the photo along with my shoe size. “See you tonight at six!” She squeals. There’s no way she’s worked in the fashion world for more than a month. She’s not miserable enough.

I see a couple girls from my agency getting stuffed into garments and say hi to them. I ask one of them if they know how much this job is paying. “I think it’s like, $250 plus trade,” one says. “Not bad, at least it’s actual fucking money,” I say, annoyed. I finish the fitting and look at my email full of castings. Twelve left, and I have five hours to fit them in. The call time for the runway show is at six, so I’ll go to the most important castings first (the ones that pay the most). I put on my coat and boots, grab my giant bag full of model bullshit and make my way out into the cold and walk three blocks to the downtown subway. I get blindsided in the face with a freezing gust of wind that might as well be called Hurricane Chris Brown. Ouch.

I’m Drowning in Bird Shit and Self Pity

I’m a shitty model. I book the shitty jobs. I’ll occasionally book a huge print ad that supplies me with enough money to support my coke habit for at least a few months. I’m kidding of course. My salary disappears into designer clothes and therapist appointments. Well spent if you ask me (my life is a disaster). I don’t do drugs because if I put any more chemicals into my body other than the copious amounts of anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, and anti-everything-that-makes-me-a-nervous-wreck pills, I would be a walking zombie. Not a cool 28 Days Later zombie, but an apathetic, self-loathing zombie. And that’s not the most productive mindset to be in when you are any kind of model, let alone a shitty one.

The shitty jobs I’m talking about are called showroom modelling. Four times a year, when new collections come out, designers hire models to wear their new threads when they arrive, fresh off the boat, from some sweatshop in Thailand. Important clients from Saks Fifth Avenue and Bergdorf Goodman will make appointments to see the new collections to decide which pieces (if any) they want in their stores. The models that book these jobs are not the ones in Chanel ads or strutting their strange, 16-year-old bodies down Valentino runways. They are the models that don’t receive any sympathy from fawning landlords come rent day because they aren’t clones of Kate Moss. This is the category that I call home.

I call showroom work the “office job” of modelling because it is a mind-numbing, steady work of changing into outfits for eight hours a day, five days a week. Often it’s the only job you have for an entire month. For the duration of those months, my life can basically go fuck itself.

This past June I booked a showroom job for a French designer. Their usual model was in Germany doing more important things like eating bratwursts and riding her bike around Berlin to art galleries that were former squatting headquarters for homeless people whose fashion sense was comparable to hipsters in Brooklyn (that’s what I imagine people in Germany do), so they needed a replacement model that looked like her. I have bangs and blue eyes, so I won. My job is at nine in the morning, I leave my midtown apartment at eight forty-five and cross 8th avenue to take the A train downtown.

A bird shits on my head while I’m waiting at the crosswalk. Shit. On my head. Bird shit. I try to casually wipe it off while I’m walking down the subway stairs searching for my metro card. I find a receipt from last night’s ice-cream run to the deli and use that to squeeze the foul-smelling goo out of my hair.

“This is the worst day of my life,” I say out loud, as I cram my way into the rush hour subway car. I share a seat with a sassy Latino mother of three, an overweight but cute secretary with designer glasses, and I stare directly across into the eyes of a Christian Bale lookalike circa American Psycho. He’s got a fancy briefcase that’s full of legal documents, silk panties from his hot date the night before and a bag of goldfish crackers. At least I hope that’s what is in it. I pray that no one standing near me looks at my hair or smells the shit. Six stops later I exit the sweaty packed subway, walk a few more blocks, and arrive at my job exactly on time.

It’s chaos already. A cute, young intern wearing a neon yellow pencil skirt, embroidered blouse and bright pink stilettos grabs me immediately and yells, “Oh my god, you’re late, the client is already here, we need you in the first look now!” I ask her, “Umm, okay can I, umm, bathroom… umm? Bird shit…” but she’s not listening to me and pulls me into a makeshift closet with a metal clothes rack and two other models standing in bras and thongs waiting to be dressed.

She hands me the first look and asks my shoe size. I tell her eight, she hands me a seven and says, “These will do.” There’s nothing more horrifying than knowing you will be in uncomfortable shoes all day. The first thought that comes to mind is, “I’d rather get fucked in the ass than wear uncomfortable heels for eight hours,” but that’s just ridiculous, and funny, so I’m leaving that sentence right there.

I’m squished into a silk sample size dress that looks great on me until it hits my thighs. I’m very flat-chested and my waist is small, but my hips are a tad larger than standard issue model size. I like to think of myself as an “LA face, Oakland booty” type of model. I waddle my way over to the buyers and stand there with remnants of bird shit in my hair and a smile on my face.

At a table topped with fresh fruit, espressos and water with lemon wedges sit four older ladies clad in Chanel watches, earrings, suits and the hue of eye shadow that make them look like 1980s transvestites. “Her thighs, why is the fabric bunching up right there?” one of them squawks while pointing at me in disgust. The sales exec says, “Well I think her hips might be just a little disproportionate to her waist, what size are your hips, sweetie?” “36,” I say, quietly. “Oh, well can we see it on a smaller girl?” I smile at the clients like they are doing me a favour and waddle back to the closet wondering if they noticed that, as well as the silk dress and the tiny fucking shoes, I’m also wearing something else’s excrement. I take off my outfit and hand it to another anorexic girl with size 35 hips. She looks great in the dress. Five minutes into my first day of a three-week-long job and I already feel like crying.

I sneak out of the closet and go to the bathroom to wash the bird shit out of my hair. I stare at myself in the mirror and have one of those “What am I doing with my life?” moments. I think about how big the cheque is going to be if I stick it out for the next few weeks in this showroom. I think about how lucky I am to be making a relatively great salary for the actual work I’m doing. I tell myself that I shouldn’t take for granted the fact that I’m employed and could be doing worse things, like working at fucking McDonald’s or the front desk of a tanning salon, but I can’t stop myself spiraling into a vortex of doubt and self-pity.

I miss my best friend and my cat Kitler who I left behind in California. I worry that I’ll never be happy without anti-depressants. I tell myself that I’m only eating vegetables for lunch and I won’t sneak into the kitchen for chocolate covered espresso beans. I start to cry. My mascara drips down my face and now I look like a sad stripper. I worry about where I’m going to be living in a few weeks because my ex-boyfriend needs his extra apartment back. I remember that the new Hot Chip album came out today and I make a mental note to download it. I hear the door open and I immediately wipe the tears from my face and walk back to the closet like nothing happened.

Back inside the closet, I find a young Russian girl and another quiet, doe-eyed blonde – your basic models. They are tall, thin – but not anorexic – and pretty, but not Victoria’s Secret pretty. They are quite plain actually. Showroom models wear limited makeup and try to be the least bit distracting from the clothes as possible. The Russian speaks broken English but she’s very nice. I just nod and agree with everything she says. The only words I could understand are “big bird”, “chocolate” and “pregnant”. Who knows what the fuck she’s saying, but I make an effort to have a conversation with her because I need to work on my social skills. Better to do it with someone who barely speaks English, right?

We talk about our passions and what we want to do after modelling. The Russian says something about cats and doctors so I’m assuming she wants to be a veterinarian. Our conversation is interrupted (like it will be periodically over the next few hours, days and weeks) to put on another group of outfits for clients from Neiman Marcus. I quickly put on the absurdly expensive clothes, small fucking shoes and stumble out to the client’s table like I’m overjoyed to be there. “I love her!” one of the well-dressed men sipping his lemon wedge water says. “Is her chest really small or is that how the shirt fits?” I stand there with the fakest smile on my face, mentally preparing myself for the next three weeks of life as a walking mannequin.

Video blog, how fun!

Life update…

Weekly column for VICE!

I’m writing a weekly column for VICE UK. Here’s the first one: http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/melissa-stetten-pretty-bored-column
Hi. I’m Melissa. I’ll be writing a weekly column for VICE until I run out of things to say or you stop reading, whichever comes first. It’s like the car warranty where you’re covered up to 50,000 miles or for three years, at which point they bend you over the trunk and fuck you in exchange to fix your brakes. That happens to everyone, right? Anyway, to start things off here’s a bit of an introduction to my life.

You know that show America’s Next Top Model? It should really be called America’s Next Top “This Isn’t How The Modelling World Is At All” Model. It’s a show that really doesn’t dig deep enough into the darker side of modelling. According to Tyra Banks, winning ANTM will immediately transform your shitty life into a glamorous whirlwind of St Tropez and lobster dinners with guys named Brad or Leo on a yacht, but if you’re not the one-in-a-zillion, kale-breathed 16-year-old who emerges victorious from that process, you’re fucked. For a slightly unstable woman in her twenties, the relentless grinding of an industry that craves eternal youth can be pretty tough.

I’ve only been living the glamourous life of a successful supermodel for about two years. (Okay, maybe just a model. The “super” in model requires you to have large tits, I think; my size 32B bra misses that by a long shot.) I started after I went to college and left Kalamazoo (yes, that is a real place) and at that point, after a teenhood spent feeling awkward and gawky and longing for the braces I could only afford at 16, I was totally unprepared mentally for what was about to be unleashed on my psyche. I’d grown up with the idea of myself having poor posture and horrible acne. I’m the stereotypical high school outcast turned crazy model, but I’m not asking you to feel sorry for me. All I ask is that you deal with it.

Unfortunately the industry has a different way of looking at things and because I’m not a teenager, I’m basically regarded as an old-ass Paulina Porizkova wannabe, doddering around the Lower East Side in Marc Jacobs like a welfare beneficiary. On the bright side, I can console myself with the idea that I wasn’t pushed into the herd at a young age and can be grateful for my discerning, hawk’s-eye-viewpoint of the industry. Sanity is way more important than success anyway, right? (Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, Melissa.)

I never really had an ardent desire to become a model. I looked at it as a way to make some extra money while I pursue my other passions, like, umm, buying clothes and dating older men? Are those passions? Who knows.

Speaking of older men (great segue, genius) I met my now ex-boyfriend through Facebook. (How modern of me!) I had been a fan of his radio show for a few years so I sent him a message saying how much I enjoyed listening to his offensive sense of humour and stories about getting kicked out of casinos. I got a reply six months later saying, “Hey, I forgot my password, what’s up?” We started texting and within weeks I was flying out to New York on the weekends. He was crazy – no, really, he had an absurd gun collection, a full bar in his giant house and gambled hundreds of thousands of dollars for fun. So, after months of flying to New York (on Virgin Airlines, why do all other planes look like Post Offices from the 1970s?), I decided to finish up my semester at art school and move to there.

Now that we’re done with the psychiatric evaluation, I guess I should deal with the physical one: I’m tall, skinny and I’ve got truly fucking wonderful blue eyes, so I figured that becoming the model I knew I could be would be the piece of cake I knew I’d no longer be able to have. After I had been in New York unemployed for a few weeks losing my mind, I decided to go to open calls at modelling agencies. I had no idea how to use the subway, so I google-mapped my way around the city to five agencies and they all said the same thing: “You’re old and your skin sucks.” Brutal.

Even when I started lying about my age they still weren’t interested, and after the fifth rejection I got really discouraged. Luckily I had one agency left on my list and as soon as I walked through the door I instantly felt welcome; I talked with the owner about my goals and (gasp) even told her my real age. I ended up signing a contract with them and almost immediately became a legit model working in Bryant Park. I was suddenly making $500 to $1000 a day trying on clothes or doing runway shows for designers I loved, and for a while it did really feel like the dream.

Unfortunately about a year into modelling I got bored, and pretty soon that boredom mutated into misery. I was tired of stressing out over every blemish on my face. I was sick of not eating what I wanted, and it was excruciating every time I had to strip off in a closet full of one-hundred-pound teenagers because I was so insecure about my body. I was unfulfilled and under-stimulated.

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to have a conversation with a child, but the conversations I was forced to have with my colleagues were truly mind-numbing. They didn’t get my Brady Bunch or Seinfeld jokes; all they talked about were cauliflower shakes and how processed cheese causes cancer. I felt lonely and out of place. All my friends were back in LA, and my boyfriend was born during the Kennedy administration, so he had no interest in going to concerts or record shopping in the East Village. I felt like if I heard an old lady say, “Oh my gosh, that is SO CUTE!” for the 50th time that day, my mind would literally dissolve into the vegetable juice my competitors seemed to love sipping so much. I started feeling really exhausted all the time, and ended up being put on Zoloft. ‘Cause pills fix everything, right?

I was very lucky not to be as vulnerable as those 17-year-olds, though. I’ve seen enough of them get trampled in this city by now that I cherish the fact I’m able to discern who the creepy photographers are and I’m confident enough not to fall for their flirty bullshit. I remember one particularly gross test shoot (test shoots are unpaid, btw, you just do them to update your portfolio) on a Saturday. (How dare my weekend of watching Seinfeld reruns be interrupted!)

Anyway, I’m like the cutesy, sassy girl with bangs, and this photographer kept telling me I “needed to be sexier”. I just needed a natural photo of me smiling, nothing more, but he kept cooing, “Sexy baby, be my Paulina.” Umm, excuse me? I wanted to punch him in the balls, but I felt like he would be into that sort of thing and honestly, I didn’t want to touch him. He asked me out after the shoot, to which I replied, with requisite amounts of stern: “I don’t think my BOYFRIEND WHO OWNS GUNS would like that.” Either he was deaf or considered himself invincible; because all this did was drive him on to insist that I was the love of his life. Naturally I ran away quicker than you could say “regrettable one-night stand”.

I coped with the grind by telling myself it was better than a boring office job, but I never really believed that. I’ve often wondered what my life would be like if I had a “normal” job – although to be honest, my idea of a normal job entails carrying a briefcase full of “important documents” and working in an office with guys like Gordon Gecko and Patrick Bateman, so I guess I’d have to be either a stock broker or a doomed hooker to ever be truly happy. Whenever I had castings in the Hearst building or at Conde Nast I’d always wonder if the girls working in cubicles saw me and imagined what their lives would be like if they were taller, thinner and prettier. I think I’m just so bored with modelling that anything else sounds enticing. I feel like I have more to offer this world than my bone structure and blue eyes.

Am I losing my mind? Is this what it feels like for everybody in their twenties? Either way, we’re in this together now, and next week I’m bringing the really heavy shit, like prescription drugs and heroin. (OK, maybe not heroin.) Till then, keep safe, and stay fierce.

48 Hours in NYC

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.

Important Meetings

I’ve been living in LA for the past few months trying to do… something… I’m not exactly sure what that is. I’ve gone to “general” meetings and pitched TV shows and ideas to production companies. I had a meeting on the Sony lot in Culver City last week. I was so excited and nervous, like, almost puking nervous. The meeting had been postponed twice which just allowed me more time to panic about what I was going to talk about. When I got to the front gate the security guard asked for my ID. Somehow I forgot my ID. How the FUCK could I forget my ID? What is wrong with me? I started crying, and begged the guy to let me through. He asked if I had anything else with my name on it and I miraculously still had my Art Center ID. What a great start to this meeting. I valet my car and ask for directions to where I’m going. “Walk through there, turn left, make a quick right, walk all the way back then make a left, keep walking until you see another building then make a right.” What? I was so nervous that all I heard coming out of his mouth was “Blah blah blah right left you’re gonna fuck this up blah blah…” So I just start walking. I look at a map. I cannot grasp what the symbols mean. I think I’m having a panic attack. It’s 85 degrees. I’m wearing heels that I can barely walk in and my favorite Rodarte skirt. At least I look good, right?

I pretend like I know where I’m going. I see a pinkberry, I contemplate getting yogurt and just leaving because there’s no way the people I’m meeting are going to be interested in anything I have to say, right? Maybe they just want to meet me because I’m a model and could care less about what I write? Can you tell I have zero insecurities? I stare at a map and I can feel my eyes tearing up. It’s 3:00 and my meeting is at 3:00. Fuck. I hear a voice to my left:

“Yo lady, you lost?” I look over and see my new best friend on a golf cart. He looks exactly like JB Smoove.
“Where you going? I’ll give you a ride.”
I frantically say: “Oh wow, really? I’m going to the Judy Garland building.”
“Hop on!” he yells.

We talk about the weather. Did you know that at any given time there are 10,597 conversations about the weather happening around the world? ENOUGH ABOUT THE FUCKING WEATHER. Although it was very nice that day.

“You going to an audition pretty lady?”
“Nope, I’m trying to be a writer.”
“Pretty AND smart? I’d hire you in a second!”
“Well thank you, let’s hope the people I’m meeting are equally as enthusiastic.”

We arrive at the building a few minutes later.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, miss, I hope all your dreams come true.”
“Thank you, Lee.”

Little moments of pure pleasurable human interaction like I had with Lee that day make me happy to be alive. I was no longer nervous and I felt completely content with everything happening in my life. I enter the building and talk to the receptionist. She tells me to have a seat. A few moments later she tells me she likes my shoes and asks if I’m a model. We talk about shoes and how we both love New York. The guy I’m there to meet comes down and tells me to follow him into his office. I tell him about my life and my love for Seinfeld and Breaking Bad. It was oddly comfortable talking to him despite the fact that I was nearly having a panic attack a few minutes prior. We talk about the modeling world and what I really want to be doing with my life. I throw in a few bulimia jokes and do my George Costanza impression. It’s gold, Jerry, gold!

I leave after an hour feeling very confident. That’s unusual because every meeting prior to this one I would leave feeling like a complete piece of shit, wishing I had said more. Have I finally reached a point in my life where I’m good at talking to people? Probably not. I attribute my momentary confidence to Lee, man I love that guy.