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This isn’t Scary

20 May

…but it is what it’s like inside my apartment. Here, a typical exchange between my roommates, who have had an open relationship for 10 years and are basically common law married.

J Rad [watching, but not doing, a stretching video in the living room]: “Did I tell you that [friend] said she was going to that party on Friday?

Wiggy Moondust [named for her combined love of wigs and David Bowie]: “She told ME that.”

J Rad: “Well, I was there.”

Wiggy Stardust: “She was talking to me”

J Rad: “Well, I saw down her shirt.”

Wiggy Spacedust: “So did the entirety of Bedford Avenue.”

J Rad: “Yeah, but I’m taller.”


Wiggy Starlust: Are you still watching that stretching video?

J Rad: “Watching is such a strong word. Let’s say I’m contemplating it.”

And here, an example of a photo J Rad took to show his love for Wiggy Sunnuts’s backside. May we all one day find such love.


Money: It doesn’t grow on trees. Cause that shit is a root. OneBad, that doesn’t even make sense. Shit, is this thing still on?

14 Jan

Hi y’all!

My friend No Pantsu, who you all may remember from the time he unceremoniously signed me up for military-style torture, IMed me the other day in a tizzy about my latest post.

“Your New Year’s Eve sounded SCARY,” he said. “But I don’t understand. Are there really ghosts in your basement?”

“Don’t be silly, No Pantsu, ghosts aren’t real.”

“Well then what was the laughing you heard coming from the bottom of the stairs?!”

“Oh! Gosh, I guess I never cleared that up. That turned out to be my downstairs neighbor guffawing at old episodes of 30 Rock. My roommates told me after they came home and went down to the basement in a troupe to turn the lights back on, then found me cowering under my blanket like a six-year-old.”



So let that be a lesson to you, readers. There are no such things as ghosts.

Rat kings, however: Real as fuck

On account of not being real, ghosts are a lot less scary than what I did today! Remember the part where I talked about having basically been butt poor since I moved to New York four years ago cause I had the admirable foresight to join the print media industry at the very beginning of its death/an international recession/the end of the world?


I’m still pretty broke, but now that I freelance a bunch and don’t live in an apartment with 14 people in an area NY Magazine accused of having the highest rapes-per-capita ratio in the entire city, I thought I’d do something nice for myself to reward myself for all my hard work.

See, all my friends are doing quite well for themselves: Party Monster is working on commission for Allsaints Spitalfields, and those (beautiful, beautiful) clothes practically sell themselves. The Pharmacist hawks diamonds for a living. Gay Meow Meow is slinging drinks in midtown and dancing in music videos.  So they go to, like, a $150 concert a week.

And then I’m like, no NOOOO, y’all go! Hey! Yeah! Have a really good time! It’s cool that I can’t go…. No, don’t worry! I’ve got, you know, underwear… I need….to sort. It’s really important! Seriously, I don’t even mind!

*Gets drunk on $5 beers at the corner bar that serves free pizza*

So today, I thought to myself, “Fuck it, OneBad, you only live once. Go ahead and buy a $250 Coachella ticket.”

After waiting for an eternity in the virtual line, I finally get in, and it keeps declining my credit card because my phone number in the system is wrong.  Finally, I’m so frustrated I pull out the debit card. “Fuck you! System.  You don’t like that card? I’ll just pay in straight CASH! Because I am a BALLER!” I think (This is inaccurate, it seems).

I’m so excited to get to the purchase screen that I barely notice the $70 in fees they tack onto the damn thing, until I look at my bank account later and wince. Then I get an email from Party Monster, which looks like this:

“The plan is to get a solid crew (10 people max) to take over a house and MTV Beach House that shit to the ground! I’ve found a couple of reasonable places all around the $3800-4500 mark. So let’s do the math kids… that comes to roughly $380-450 a person.


Each property that I’ve been looking at has a security deposit coming in around $3000. Making our grand total for the house UP FRONT MAX $7500.
10 people
$750 up front, but only $450 after security deposit return”

At which point I panicked and ran around in a circle and fell down and vomited. (ok, not really) But then I was like, you know what, I should just burn the remaining $2 in my wallet for good measure. Stick it in a little pile in the corner and roast a marshmallow over it and cackle like I’m the 1%.

But I’m too scared.  What if I run out of money and those two dollars are the only thing standing between me and starvation?  (I once read that people who have been poor for a long time think this way permanently. And if Great Depression stories are to be believed, they also tend to hoard food–which is the excuse I’m using for the nest of year-old McDonald’s junior cheeseburgers I’m lying in right now in my underwear.)

So I just sniffed it instead.

Mmmmmm. Mooooonnneeeyyyy.

(P.S. Seriously, anybody want me to write some shit for them in exchange for money? I write real good. Promise!)

The Basement Chronicles (Or, Do You Like Scary Movies?)

1 Jan

This is you watching a scary movie. You have balled your hands into fists even though you don’t know it. Your feet are curled up in your chair in case there are real monsters underneath it that might eat your feet. Periodically, you check your Twitter feed as if the movie is merely boring instead of resolutely terrifying. This is how you get away with not watching the scariest parts. (But I’m on to you.)  The killer, clearly, is in the basement. He knows it. You know it. The only person who appears not to know it is the film’s lithe heroine, because she is just now descending into it WITHOUT A FLASHLIGHT despite the fact that the only light has clearly been broken by human hands, five of her friends were dispatched by a psychopath in the last hour, and there is creepy music that indicates in no uncertain terms that she’s going to die.


This is a true statement. People do not do this. Except when they do. Last night I was in my apartment, taking my sweet time getting ready to  head out to a New Year’s Eve party. I have a new, shorter haircut, so I had bought some super fancy Osis hair powder to try out (Shameless promotion: Buy this shit, it rules). My roommates had gone to dinner and I hadn’t bothered to turn out the light in their room…or the living room… or the kitchen. I put a cup of cider in the microwave. I turned on the hair dryer and… I think you see where this is going.

Total blackness.

This is what black looks like. You're welcome.

I live in an old Polish building in Greenpoint with a door and general foundation I would swear are made out of cast iron. The shower basically turns into hot lava anytime anyone in any of the 12 or so apartments so much as turns on a faucet (so, like every two minutes DIESHOWERIHATEYOU). So I was not exactly surprised that simultaneous microwaving and hair drying were beyond the building’s capabilities.

That said, my general state of being appears to be “woeful unpreparedness.” I did happen to have lit a candle in my window in the course of getting ready, but I do not:

1. own a flashlight.

2. know where the fuck the fusebox is, or

3. have any idea how to operate a fusebox even if I were to miraculously find one… in the dark.

So naturally, I got out my iPhone and shined its dull gleam in locations I thought were likely to contain fuse boxes. These included, but were not limited to: behind the fridge, next to the radiator, inside the coat closet and “places I can only see if I stand on the couch.”

This strategy having (surprisingly) failed, I texted my roommates to ask if they knew where the fuse box was. They did!

“It’s in the basement. On the right. I think they’re pretty clearly marked,” said my Fancy Pants Not Scared of the Basement Roommate. Even though nothing explicitly scary had occurred thus far, I was already huddled on my bed with the covers up to my nose imagining all sorts of terrible demons and medical tortures that were probably going on in the sections of my room I could no longer see, so I didn’t think going into the basement was a good idea–but I had to get to the party before midnight, and my hair was drying *GASP* naturally by the second. I had to do something.

“Fine,” I thought. “I’ll go in the basement. I’m not scared of any old basement. I am going to go in there and turn on the lights and write about how awesome and fearless I am on my blog.”

“YEAH!” said the chorus of supporters that lives in my head.

So I went downstairs. And I was like, “Here, basement basement basement. Here, little basement.  If I were a basement where would I ….”

Oh THERE it is.

For those of you who have underdeveloped amygdalas (the part of your brain that processes emotional salience… e.g. fear), this door is one of the scariest doors to a basement I have ever seen. In fact, in light of this basement door, I fully support filming the next season of American Horror Story in my apartment building.

Then. I opened it.

I mean, seriously, just look at this shit. And I took these during the DAY.

Still, despite having seen at least 15 zillion horror movies where the scantily dressed female lead who was JUST getting ready to go to a debaucherous party gets murdered to death in the basement, I was like, “Oh, hey, yeah. I’ve already come this far. I’ll just turn on this light here and…”



*click click*

*click click*

The light doesn’t turn on, and as I sit there fiddling with the switch, I hear, quietly emanating from the depths of the basement, but getting louder.


At which point I actually said “Oh FUCK this” out loud and ran up three flights of stairs so fast I think it might actually be an Olympic record.

Then I did my makeup in the dark. Until my roommates came back.

The Hunt for Bed Spot, Sober

4 Jul

9am: Wake up, realize you have nowhere to live in a month. Panic.

9:30: Wake back up. Realize you have nowhere to live in a month and have now wasted thirty minutes. Run around screaming. Trip over cat. Eat Pop-Tart in one bite.

Oh my god, Y'all, what if they made these?!

10:00am: Email 40 people about the possibility of moving in with them. Include following phrase:

“I realize trying to find a share in New York City with two cats is like trying to find a date with leprosy (not that I’m against leprosy, should you have leprosy. I’m leprosy-friendly), but my ex-boyfriend…. ahem…. left them here?  And they’re really cute, I swear.”

10am-1pm: paint over ex-boyfriend’s unfinished brick mural so your landlord won’t kill you

2pm: Receive two interested responses. One of them is a psychic. One of them has a friend in the ASPCA who can help you “take care” of the cats.

2:05pm: Panic

Not this kind of Panic.

2:15pm: Realize cats have gotten paint all over themselves. Reconsider ASPCA guy’s offer.

3pm: Go see psychic’s apartment. She says she loves cats. There is a 2-foot long flypaper hanging from the kitchen ceiling. The color of the bathroom is indiscernible under interlocking starbursts of black mold. She has chosen the medium-sized room not for the rent, but because of its energy. Back out slowly.

4pm: Fear that bathrooms that have been seen cannot be unseen. Go for a long run so that one day you’ll be hungry again.

5:30pm: Visit ASPCA guy’s apartment. It is perfect and amazing and he even has containers of flour and sugar and trail mix in his kitchen. But you have cats. Scowl.

6-9pm: Finish painting apartment. Realize you have a freelance article to write. Make apricot jell-o instead.

10pm: Blog about not being able to find an apartment.

10:15pm: Panic.

*cork popping out of wine bottle*