Plus, I met the Jane Pratt-- in 3 dimensions! And I got wasted with a brain surgeon and got some new products!
I went to New York a couple of weeks ago, during CMJ. Just. My. Luck. If you’re not familiar, CMJ is a music festival in New York, the gist being that most of the bands are unsigned high schoolers from, like, outside Philly, hoping to get an NYC record deal. (Neither was I, so I’m not judging you for not being music-cool and using the words “reverb,” and “lo-fi” and owning some sort of completely obsolete sound-producing contraption. I do wear pins to make me look like I do those things, though.)
My friend Catie works for a label and we hopped around to shows for her to check out potentially potential bands with potential. I think music festivals are totally ick, especially any that involve completely unnecessary queues kept to make the venue look busy, and the requirement of “knowing” somebody to get in.
God does this shit to test me. I’ll probably have a little chapter in The Testament: Part 3. Or at least some verses. And probably because he thinks I’m kind of a dick for belittling people that think Jesus was white. Plus, Catie is the coolest and I’ll do anything to hang out with her -- ANYTHING! Did I mention that she works at a record label?
The last night I was there, Catie and our friend Misha Hercules (REAL NAME, would I lie?) took me to a Brooklyn Loft Party. Brooklyn Loft Parties are totally cool and should be capitalized always. This one was especially cool because there were no rules -- these people probably didn’t even HAVE parents, just credit cards that some nice older couple pay for. They did have every pair of Lita boots ever made, free drugs and invited all of the 20-something teenagers that were in town for CMJ.
So I think I’m a pretty cool person, I can hang. But if this trip to NYC taught me anything about myself, it’s that I totally can’t hang. Just ask my other friend that took me to this hip-hop club where we had bottle service and a nice gentleman named Daren freestyled to me, making the connection between my being from Dallas and him having a “Big D.”I thought it was kind of funny to be honest, but how do you politely decline your number? Even after he laughs at you, and says he’s not hitting on you, but continues to persist?
The chick whose table we were at gave me a reassuring hug before we peaced, whispering, “I hope you feel better!” in my ear. What she really meant was, “It’s not for everybody. I think Barnes and Noble in Union Square stays open late, if you like reading, or whatever.”
Did I mention that we started the evening at a private party on the roof of an Olsen-approved hotel where I got wasted with a legit brain surgeon?? I’m pretty sure some Tumblr celebrities were there also. Concrete-jungle-where-dreams-are-made-of.
Anyway, it was at the Brooklyn Loft Party that some asshole punk with for-serious dental work asked me to sit on his face. There was no conversation lube leading up to that mind fuck, either. I just got all shifty-eyed and quiet, and felt uncomfortably naughty like when my mom found my homemade Sculpey pipes.
From that point on, I was the totally uncool chick who couldn’t take a little oral sex joke like a cool chick would’ve. Which really pissed me off, by the way, because I’m hilarious when it comes to off-color sex jokes. Did you guys hear about how I’m going to fuck Mason Disick to get famous? (You should never joke about sexy babies.)
Anyway, I can only attribute this unsolicited sex invitation to my “8-star” shiny hair thanks to the Oscar Blandi Pronto Gloss from the xoJane beauty closet. Yep, I got to meet Jane! And Mandy and Olivia and Tyler and Madeline and Corynne. I felt like Dorothy after the storm, wide-eyed and dumbfounded, with all my Internet dream pals gathered around.
Except I was still peering around corners, being all, “Auntie Em? AUNTIE EM?” because Emily wasn’t there! (This analogy only works if you replace all of those creepy old men with women and Auntie Em with an attractive young mother that tweets about anal sex and just got a pretty new tattoo.)
So Corynne told me that I could pick out some stuff from the beauty closet –- words I’ve been waiting to hear since, like, other girls began bragging about shit like that online. It was at that moment that I wish my parents hadn’t raised me to politely pick one or two pieces of candy while trick-or-treating rather than take a whole fucking bad-kid handful.
She did say I could take multiple things -- do you guys think I took too much? I was very self-conscious of some dormant Veruka Salt-type shit surfacing. Besides the gloss, I got two bottles of nail polish (OCC Swamp Thing and Dior “sparkly red” -- it had no label!)
I also got Avon Damage Repair 3D Rescue Leave-In Treatment. I didn’t really shower while I was in New York and couldn’t take it on the plane, so I left it with a friend to try. She hasn’t been returning my texts asking for her opinion, but her hair looks nice in her Instagrams lately, so I’m assuming that it's being used –- and also that her phone isn’t broken. She obviously didn’t deserve that compliment; I’m just putting bias aside for the sake of journalism. Pretty on the outside doesn’t equate to pretty on the inside.
Olivia and I made this video while I was at the offices. The first order of business at the staff meeting that day was Corynne asking the other xoaners to please not say, “Cunt, pussy, or vagina,” loudly in the office anymore. HR was getting involved.