As Miranda went on and on about the new Yankees stats, I couldn’t help wondering about my own. Sixty days without leaving the house. Countless hours of mindless browsing the social media and feeling intellectually superior to Aidan who’s made it big as an online Christian motivational speaker. Three Cosmos before lunch and one “Are You the Magical Chosen One”-Quiz. If I were a ballplayer, I’d be batting… whatever really bad is.
Later that night, I got to thinking about days gone by. That carefree time when questioning your whole existence and the purpose of it all wasn’t a thing. The time when brunch meant more mimosas, high fashion, upbeat gossip about those bitches from our hometown who never moved out, and fewer coffee and cigarettes alone on the balcony of an overpriced apartment.
Does that sense of adventure still flicker inside of us?
I couldn’t help but wonder if I really did know the way to let myself out.
Maybe get on TikTok?
Fake it ‘till you make it, they say. While women are certainly no strangers to faking it, the real question here is: What are we to fake, if it’s not fur, hair color, cup size or orgasms? What should I fake? And what will I make once I faked it?
New York in Spring. What a dread…
I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it. I do hope of becoming the woman with clean hair though. Isn’t a single gal allowed to dream?
“Nowadays, you can do anything that you want—anal, oral, fisting—but you need to be wearing gloves, condoms, protection.” Is this Žižek or Samantha? Are they truly different? Note to self: Write a book on the intersection between the philosophy of Slavoj Žižek and the lifestyle of my good friend Samantha. Working title: Kneeling To Blow Him Does Not Mean Kneeling To Capitalism. A Step by Step Guide on How to Take Hegelian Dialectics From The Sheets Into The Streets.
Blowing someone… I can’t even seem to remember the mouthfeel anymore. Charlotte once said that if you don’t have sex for a year, you can actually become ‘revirginized.’ My mom would be so proud… Note to self: call mom for the first time in 22 years.
The fact is, sometimes it’s really hard to walk in a single woman’s shoes. Especially when none of your exes hearts your Instagram posts of yoga poses wearing Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik. Yeah, Adriene from Yoga With Adriene, I’d like to see YOU pull this off.
Damn it. Samantha was right. There’s always a competition with an ex. It’s called “who’ll die miserable?” I couldn’t help but wonder: If I am the one dying miserable – did I win or did I lose?