April started of with a party I didn't go to because I had been having this weird fever I probably complained about before - I don't usually keep my complaints to myself. I heard it wasn't good, anyhow, so I'm not very sad I didn't go; I feel like I'm doing the college thing wrong 'cause I'm way too exhausted to get excited about partying. All I want to do by the end of the day is curl up in front of some cinematic masterpiece like "John Tucker Must Die" and eat a Mars bar. Despite this attitude, I actually did go some places this month....
Silk is a lovely fabric. But I never wanted to know that much about it. Still, we went to about a zillion exhibitions dealing with the topic and I don't want to hear a thing about it ever again except for a shop assistant at Chanel describing the inside of a purse to me.
Wearing 5 inch heels and patterned tights for a pizza run isn't the brightest idea I've ever had. See, my friend and I had been to a shop opening and had gotten all glammed up, since it was supposed to go a cool two hours and be inside and everything. But after squeezing through loads of people who may or may not have been important, not able to hear a single spoken word over the sound of a Tove Lo mashup (I really don't like mashups. I'm over here looking forward to my fave part of a song and the DJ totally ruins it for me by changing the pace, leaving me struggling to get back into the rhythm. Don't get the point of that), we realized we really wanted a pizza. And there's this place in NoLita where they do a nice one, and we took the subway but got off too late (I guess we were talking about boys and why they can't text properly. Speaking of that, I was so impatient that I sent a message first (I absolutely need to stop doing that because I'm the first to tell you you shouldn't) and it's been an hour and I haven't got a reply yet so yeah, where was I?) so we had to walk. You should've seen me. People were staring, but as it goes, no one was worried enough to call an ambulance even though I must have looked as if I was in great pain, 'cause I was indeed. I could't stretch my legs because that would've been too much pressure on my feet, so I bent my knees and set foot in front of foot like a pregnant model/hooker, making labor-like noises. Très chic. The pizza guy didn't care though, he seemed to like my tights, so even though we practically fell through the door (I did. My friend could walk like an adult) thirty minutes before closing time, they served us. At some point outside, I'd taken my heels off and gone barefoot, until I noticed that was actually as painful due to concrete being hard and my feet being tortured, so it didn't matter. As I pointed out repeatedly that night, no pain, no gain (of beauty).
Now my loveliest friend isn't texting me back, either. She's working though, so she's got an excuse. But what is it, am I in a bad service area? That might be it, seeing as how I'm sitting on the lower floor where there's never any wifi when you need it. Gosh, the sight of my innocent message sitting alone in the chat is tragic. I'm never doing this again. It's not even that I really believe I'm getting ignored, but as no one's proving the opposite, I'm kinda irritated.
Oh, I'm getting tired of talking about that already. (See?)
Let's get a little more uplifting, shall we?
A sweet boy I met last summer turned 18 last week and even though I'm just about a year older than him, I use that as an excuse to call him little and ruffle his hair (he's about two heads taller than me but who isn't these days). So he had a party at his house and I put a black dress on, teased my hair to the point it looked ridiculous, patted it down until I looked like a Rock n Roll groupie, and got my car keys. Parking in front of a sign that said "no waste here"; my car isn't waste, is it? I mean, it might not exactly be new, and it's green (now I got a text and it was a girl from my class and I got way too mad at her for a second), but this is such a lovely parking spot I won't give it up. Two kids walk past me and I'm not sure I want to go where they're going because they look like people in school did senior year (a total coincidence, seeing as they are seniors) and I feel fine without a throwback experience. I waited for about five minutes, redoing my lipstick and sending voice memos ("Is my car waste? I don't like to meet strangers"). Then I went, and honestly? It really was a throwback to high school parties, complete with sitting in a bedroom full of weird smoke (my poor dress reeks of the stuff. My hair didn't, surprisingly. I'm talking nonsense here), paper cups (I drove, but I clutched a cup just to have something to do with my hands) and the guests fumbling around on the stereo. Nice in a weird way. Weird in a nice way. I got totally lost on the way back home and already saw myself asking for directions at a gas station while hiding my navigation system (we're not often on the same page of things), but I made it on my own (on my oooown).
Details to come. Stay curious.
Love,
Rosy Smith
Silk is a lovely fabric. But I never wanted to know that much about it. Still, we went to about a zillion exhibitions dealing with the topic and I don't want to hear a thing about it ever again except for a shop assistant at Chanel describing the inside of a purse to me.
Wearing 5 inch heels and patterned tights for a pizza run isn't the brightest idea I've ever had. See, my friend and I had been to a shop opening and had gotten all glammed up, since it was supposed to go a cool two hours and be inside and everything. But after squeezing through loads of people who may or may not have been important, not able to hear a single spoken word over the sound of a Tove Lo mashup (I really don't like mashups. I'm over here looking forward to my fave part of a song and the DJ totally ruins it for me by changing the pace, leaving me struggling to get back into the rhythm. Don't get the point of that), we realized we really wanted a pizza. And there's this place in NoLita where they do a nice one, and we took the subway but got off too late (I guess we were talking about boys and why they can't text properly. Speaking of that, I was so impatient that I sent a message first (I absolutely need to stop doing that because I'm the first to tell you you shouldn't) and it's been an hour and I haven't got a reply yet so yeah, where was I?) so we had to walk. You should've seen me. People were staring, but as it goes, no one was worried enough to call an ambulance even though I must have looked as if I was in great pain, 'cause I was indeed. I could't stretch my legs because that would've been too much pressure on my feet, so I bent my knees and set foot in front of foot like a pregnant model/hooker, making labor-like noises. Très chic. The pizza guy didn't care though, he seemed to like my tights, so even though we practically fell through the door (I did. My friend could walk like an adult) thirty minutes before closing time, they served us. At some point outside, I'd taken my heels off and gone barefoot, until I noticed that was actually as painful due to concrete being hard and my feet being tortured, so it didn't matter. As I pointed out repeatedly that night, no pain, no gain (of beauty).
Now my loveliest friend isn't texting me back, either. She's working though, so she's got an excuse. But what is it, am I in a bad service area? That might be it, seeing as how I'm sitting on the lower floor where there's never any wifi when you need it. Gosh, the sight of my innocent message sitting alone in the chat is tragic. I'm never doing this again. It's not even that I really believe I'm getting ignored, but as no one's proving the opposite, I'm kinda irritated.
Oh, I'm getting tired of talking about that already. (See?)
Let's get a little more uplifting, shall we?
A sweet boy I met last summer turned 18 last week and even though I'm just about a year older than him, I use that as an excuse to call him little and ruffle his hair (he's about two heads taller than me but who isn't these days). So he had a party at his house and I put a black dress on, teased my hair to the point it looked ridiculous, patted it down until I looked like a Rock n Roll groupie, and got my car keys. Parking in front of a sign that said "no waste here"; my car isn't waste, is it? I mean, it might not exactly be new, and it's green (now I got a text and it was a girl from my class and I got way too mad at her for a second), but this is such a lovely parking spot I won't give it up. Two kids walk past me and I'm not sure I want to go where they're going because they look like people in school did senior year (a total coincidence, seeing as they are seniors) and I feel fine without a throwback experience. I waited for about five minutes, redoing my lipstick and sending voice memos ("Is my car waste? I don't like to meet strangers"). Then I went, and honestly? It really was a throwback to high school parties, complete with sitting in a bedroom full of weird smoke (my poor dress reeks of the stuff. My hair didn't, surprisingly. I'm talking nonsense here), paper cups (I drove, but I clutched a cup just to have something to do with my hands) and the guests fumbling around on the stereo. Nice in a weird way. Weird in a nice way. I got totally lost on the way back home and already saw myself asking for directions at a gas station while hiding my navigation system (we're not often on the same page of things), but I made it on my own (on my oooown).
Details to come. Stay curious.
Love,
Rosy Smith
