Rosy Smith: Lists

LinkedIn is the new Instastalking. For reasons I'd rather not mention, I avoid Facebook and Instagram pages of boys that I talk to (oh screw it, it's because I don't like seeing the lovey-dovey couple shots the fitness guy posted while texting me about his morning, um, cravings), but since having been to Cambridge, I love checking out their LinkedIn profiles. Instead of mood-killing pictures of beer pong tournaments back in 2014 and bad skin phases, the profile pic on here usually entails a suit (good), a fresh haircut (good) and a neutral expression that doesn't make me uncomfortable (what else could you ask for?). Instead of a list of the stupid games they play on their phone, there's one of actually useful, maybe even impressing skills that they have (or are confident about being able to fake in case an employer asks to see them). Instead of the vacation they've been on with their parents and the club they hit every weekend, you get a nice rundown of the schools they went to, and, very essential, where they work(ed). Not saying this in a gold-digging kinda way, but it never hurts to look at education/ambition/situation, does it? I find this a million times more interesting than shirtless pictures, because honestly, I can get that view other ways. Also, I think it's pretty neat when a guy has his professional presence down, but that might be my personal thing (though I'm too superficial to be a true sapiosexual, I want it all: The looks and the brains).

What the hell happened to taking it slow? I think we all got into a grand misunderstanding, relationship-definition-wise, because lately, it either seems to be "Totally unattached, plainly sexual, but still hurtful if ended" or "Let's get married a month from the first day we kissed and don't you dare reject one of my calls while you are having friends over or I'll think you hate me now". I don't know about you, but if that's the options, I'm choosing the hurtful sex thing because honestly, at least that's drama free until you really have something to be crushed about. Have people forgotten about the wonderful, carefree, first few weeks or even months of not having to worry about next summer, but not having to worry about one of you sleeping with your best mate on the side, either? The magical time when yes, you can be completely sure of one another at the moment because you are in a blissful state of getting to know each other during long sofa talks and weekends of staying in bed and getting yourself the best muscle ache ever, but do not yet have to figure out the logistics of your job abroad and his family hating you for not wanting kids or whatever, because why the hell would you do that at this point? I get it, we're all getting older and those topics gotta come up sooner rather than later nowadays because screwing around for two years before thinking about maybe sometime moving in together isn't so cute anymore when you're nearing the end of your twenties, but give it a few weeks before naming your children, goddammit.

Last but not least, Instagram is so much fun - I know that I'm probably the last person on earth to discover my Insta-vibe, but see, the app is always crashing on me and I have not photo-artistic talent whatsoever, so I've always been more of a stalker-y bystander in this game. However, after getting my geek on and researching sneaky ways to keep it running smoothly, I am now happily annoying people with overexposed pictures of pasta and dirty mirror selfies. And I've started to get DMs -not those icky ones from strangers who are trying to sell blue pills, but from people I actually know in that weird state of not exactly being friends but apparently still having a reason to talk to each other. Now me, being relatively new to this conversation style, I wonder: Is this just a messaging service you use on the side for your "we would probably never see each other in real life"-friends, like tumblr messages? Or is it the wagon to WhatsApp, testing out if the other person is worth putting into your phone book, just as Facebook Messenger? I would actually prefer the latter, because the DMs are still regularly making my phone kill itself and it's exhausting.

I'm currently stuck at home avoiding writing what I actually have to write, but fun times lie ahead next week!

Love,

Rosy Smith

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I didn't expect returning back to work to throw me off this much, but honestly, they produce five different weekly magazines at my new office and everyone's writing for each one and I can't even figure out how many letter combinations you can get out of a five letter word. And I'm not in the outlook calendar so I just run to the conference room when everybody else does. But I get to write several pages myself and run around with a notepad and sit in fast-talk meetings and that's very, very nice.

Me and the other interns stuck to our January plan which was essentially to go out a lot because that's the last month we're all here. Didn't say it was the most detailed plan ever known to mankind. But we hit the Reeperbahn (that's this famous partying/red light district street) and I have a question: Did the people in the first few minutes of Dirty Dancing know each other? And if not, did they at least ask for each other's names? Dancing culture sure has changed since the days of Elizabeth and Darcy skipping around each other while firing sarcastic questions with every twirl. But then again, Darcys are rare.

Someone took a picture

I'm on season three of Jane The Virgin and oh my Goodness, why oh why? I'm not gonna spoil you (even though it is unlikely because I am, as usual, late for the party) but I'd like to know who wrote that script.

Oh and I bought quite a lot of second-hand stuff lately, which is a first for me because remember, I get icky over hotel sheets. But my loveliest friend discovered a website where they inspect the pieces and give you their condition and the deals were too good to resist (granted, I didn't try too hard but anyways). The package is arriving tomorrow, and I hope they'll put it in the hallway, because I'm never home on weekdays and you had to give your neighbours full names in order to direct the package to them and I hardly know their last names (and that only because they're written out next to their doors).

So yeah, now we're up to date. Hope January's treating you well.

Love,

Rosy Smith

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Can I just say that

a) I've been logged out of my google and twitter and everything account for some reason.

b) I never log out, mostly because I'm lazy and also because I always forget my passwords.

c) I remembered the Google one but it failed me on Twitter.

d) My regular email account did not receive Twitter's link mails.

e) My other account did, though. A miracle is upon us.

d) The mails suggested I use my Twitter app to reset my password. Which does not sound like such a bad idea.

e) HOWEVER, the app requests me to type in my OLD password in order to reset it.

f) Why the hell would anyone want to reset their password if they freaking remember it?

g) Oh, now those emails work, huh.

Okay, now that is out of the way. Thus (I should've studied English), the past half hour was evidently not spent cleaning this place up. Which is a shame, considering that I

a) Felt gross when I came home so I hopped in and out of the shower without looking back (eg. wipe).

b) Got hungry because I spent ages doing a) so I stumbled out to the store across the street where I bought overpriced breakfast bars, shrimps and juice (the clerk has to be used to my weird eating habits by now. He even helped me carry my juice sixpack to the register. But he kept the change, which wasn't what I meant by "that'll do" when I handed him a larger sum. I meant "sorry but you'll have to calculate my change". I'll speak in full sentences next time). By nine pm, I finally ate, but I didn't get around to load the dishwasher yet 'cause I started my nighttime routine of Friends and chocolate.

c) Have not put any clothes back into the closets all week. Interestingly enough, all my closet doors are wide open, though.

I'm thinking about getting a grip right now and tidy, but I have to get up at seven tomorrow (in journalism, no one really starts working before half past nine usually (I'll get back on that in another story), so this is gruesome for me) because we're doing a shoot somewhere in town. I'll have to try and remember how to assist at that kinda thing. Last time, I was mostly sat on the sofa trying on pointy boots and zipping skirts open and closed. I'm guessing it won't be quite the same.

What am I gonna wear, by the way? I had my comfortable outfit on today already (leggins, but pretending they're those hip joggers, and my slouchy feelgood sweater, and ballet flats in a desperate attempt to look Audrey Hepburn perky), so it's gonna be a skirt.

Figured it out, thanks to the open closet. It's half past eleven now and I'm tired and I still have to memorize my train times for tomorrow. And wipe the shower, 'cause I can practically hear my parents telling me to do so from back home.

Nighty night, then.

Love,

Rosy Smith

PS: No, I don't speak Chinese. But I can look at the pictures.

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