Aah, February. What are we gonna do with you. Let's find out, shall we?

This is not the greatest picture ever taken, but it's the only one I could crop myself out of. Not 'cause my friends aren't pretty, but 'cause I'm not sure if they'd wanna be on here

Yeah we went out to celebrate carnival. Interestingly, Hamburg is like, the one place in Germany where they don't actually do carnival, but we tracked down a party, threw together some costumes from scratch and merrily went off (after changing in the fancy foyer bathroom of our workplace, scaring the concierge in the process). When we made it to the location, there were literally fifteen people there, so we refused to waste our hard-earned money and sat down outside, counting the arriving guests. We made minus. Two guys left, but not without coming by and telling us how much that place blew and that we should come with them to another spot, so naturally, we took up their advice and ended up having a lovely night at a very authentic bash right underneath city hall. The lesson here, lovelies: Don't talk to strangers, unless they look like they know where it's going on.

Currently listening to: Cry Baby, by Melanie Martinez, as well as Cry Baby, by Demi Lovato. Different approaches, same belt-out potential. Love me a good "mascara all over my face" aesthetic. You must think I'm such fun at parties, right? But don't you worry, because

I'm all moved back into my parent's house, to finish up my last year at fashion school! I have to say, looking at the still-not-unpacked boxes around me (and the fact that all my clothes are holed up in my suitcase and I am too lazy to hang them up and therefore have nothing to wear at all), there is a certain nostalgia for my spacious, generally orderly apartment with the great shoe rack. However, home does have lots of perks to it, such as fully cooked food at reasonable hours of the day, cough medicine (I'm not an addict, I actually am sick. I think my ribs are broken, but I might have just pulled a muscle while coughing out my lungs. Again, glamorous party trick) and loved ones around.

For instance, I met up with my bestest friend already! She is currently seeing someone new (or rather, new in the sense of him being "seeing" material), and we were wondering: When is the right time to ask to see the other person's health record? Do you just casually whip out your own and say "oh, I just happened to pick this up, why don't you show me yours, too, sometime?" To be honest, I'd probably totally forget about that. Even though it is an important matter and there's no shame in checking your health and ladida, you know I get queasy talking about my UTIs, so how do you expect me to be cool about this? Also, it just seems so unromantic and un-fun and un-spontaneous. But maybe there is some kind of secret code to use? I am a big fan of using secret codes for uncomfortable conversations (remember Sunday?).

Someone who's in a wholly different sphere of being right now is my loveliest friend. She's currently studying in Milan, and if you haven't been hiding from humanity you'll know that Milan fashion week is going on right now - so it's Fendi for lunch and Prada at night for her. Everyone's there, Anna, the other Anna, Olivia, Gigi; notice how I'm already using their first names like I'm a close personal friend? And I'm not even there. Got the pictures to prove it, though. I'm flying out next weekend, which I'm already overly excited about, not 'cause of the fashion (well, a bit, too), but because we'll be finally reunited (my loveliest friend and I, if that wasn't quite clear. It's hard not to get caught up there).

Love,

Rosy Smith

....doesn't make you stronger.


(I just listened to Sara Bareilles' "Brave" and it inspired me. I feel like this song is the perfect excuse for anyone who's already on the verge of sending a risky text.)

If it doesn't kill you, and by "it" I mean great emotional distress, well, that just means one is obviously incapable of physically dying of a broken heart, and that's not even a medical miracle, because it happens rather rarely these days. All those romantic characters from Bronte (I don't know how to do these double dots above the e) stories who kicked the bucket probably weren't in such a good health condition to begin with. You know, pneunomia and all that jazz that comes with living near a moor while dressing in musselin.

One is not stronger. If one was, it wouldn't feel like it's killing them. If one was, they wouldn't have to think about cheesy phrases like that. They would just shine on in their newfound strongness and belt out Kelly Clarkson songs. But they're not, are they? I think it should be "what doesn't kill you shows you how weak you can actually be if you reaally try". Or "what doesn't kill you makes you witness your lowest point, heaving over the toilet because you cried yourself sick, in full consciousness".

Now said Kelly Clarkson song came on in my Spotify mix. That is one cruel coincidence. Well played. I still hate it.

Love,

Rosy Smith

PS: I love most other Kelly Clarkson songs, though. Her new album is great, for instance.

PPS: I got a weird pronoun thing going on here. I tried to be objective. 

It's my last night alone in the apartment, because my parents are coming tomorrow. I'm watching Youtube  (my Netflix trial subscription ran out on Valentine's), and I may or may not be in the middle of an attempt to empty half a bottle of wine, because I'm a good girl and don't want to waste leftovers. I'm just realizing that this spot, sat in the spare room in front of the window, is a lot like Carrie's writing situation in Satc. If I actually lived here and would actually spent time working, this would be so cool. I would totally sit and gaze over at the supermarket across the street. It's not the Village, but still. It's such a weird feeling to know that I'm not likely to live in this apartment ever again. Maybe in this city, but who knows?

I've only just come to have a lovely social circle, to know some cool going-out destinations, to get more confident at work and settle in a home routine. I got my favorite supermarket sushi, my Saturday ballet class and the people I go to lunch with and who call me when they're walking home in the dark. I just remembered how I wrote a while back that I had yet to meet someone who I'd talk to about things like marriage and having kids while sitting on the living room floor, and I spent Wednesday doing  that exactly with one of the intern girls.

I think I just spat on my screen coughing. Did I mention that I have a grand cold? I'm near losing my voice, and I've screeched at everyone at the office today while trying to finish up with my work.

My work - even though there's been days when I just wanted to call in sick and keep to myself for the day, I've never dreaded it. I like going somewhere with a purpose and knowing that I'm spending my day being somewhat productive. I like being part of this big business and whirling into the foyer in my black fake fur coat, greeting the doormen, knowing my way around. I like being taken seriously and being given responsibilities, even if I get stressed out as soon as I have more than two things going on at a time. I'll get to that. I'll get to being calm and organized. I've been doing this current job for six weeks only. so I'm practically still starting and I'm sure that it'd be totally different after six months of training.

Also, I have made some choices regarding what I want to do when I finish university this fall. Or rather, regarding what I don't want to do. And I think that, especially in the creative field, it's okay to start off with something that you already know you only want to be doing temporarily, until you get more comfortable and can branch out into something less safe, and then switch it up again, depending on the contacts and experiences you made and the opportunities that present itselves to you. There's only crooked ways out there, am I right?

God, I love this place. I'd be lying if I said that I'd been solely happy here. At times, I've been incredibly lonely. But I would have felt that wherever I had spent the past six months. And apart from that, I loved being here. Part of me is ready to go home, because of certain people, certain things I miss. But I hate the finality of saying goodbye to this apartment, to this independent routine of my own that is closely tied to this place.

The cough is getting worse now so I better get on with packing and drinking this up. Next time we'll talk, I'll be back to my childhood home, which will always be, you know, home to me. But this comes as a close second.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm wearing net tights today. We're going to some photography exhibition tonight and I felt that was appropriately artsy, paired with a black all over look and moderately heeled boots to soothe my foot (remember, I hurt that walking down the beach). I feel like people are looking at me, though, and I'm wondering if this trend has never made it to Hamburg. Or maybe it's already over, in which case too bad, I just got this pair and I like it.

I think my skirt and sweater are different shades of black. There goes my artsiness. Maybe the lighting will be really dim in the gallery and no one will notice. An hour to go until lunch. I'm researching a story about a handicapped woman and now I'm knee-deep into reading articles and book excerpts from and about mothers of disabled children. The internet truly is a black hole. But I really want to push this story through before I go home, because I really, really don't want to do another spreadsheet.

A success: I confidently pushed through my concept talking to the editor in chief. Well, I turned red and practically begged her to let me do it, but a true journalist fights by all means. However, she completely turned my idea around, and I'm not quite sure my interview partner will approve of that new angle. But of course, I nodded along, and now I rewrote my concept and sent a cryptic email and I hope the woman, who is a published writer herself, will have a bit of sympathy with me.

Five to six (that's when I leave work) and I've been to the washroom to put on lipstick, fluff out my hair and ignore the disgusting lighting. I look so much better in the reflection of my desktop. I intend to go with that version.

Okay, so we're at that waffle place I sometimes go to, and we had these delicious waffles, and now we've seen a mouse. A tiny, squeaky one, but still. One of my friends practically has her feet up on her stool. The owner went out to telephone the vermin exterminator - I think he's scared of being sued, but I'd rather have him get this mouse out. Now we're all alone with the little one, and it just went behind the counter. That's where the precious waffles are!

Alright, it ran out the door again, and we got a vermin discount. Also, we were already finished when it happened, so no food got wasted due to sunk appetite. That's something, ain't it so?

The exhibition is crowded. Good thing we tend to be overly punctual, because when we left, there was an actual line that went on for days. The inside was nice and felt culturally enriching, but I surely wouldn't wanna get cold for that.


































We're on the Elbphilharmonie - I've never been this late at night, but it's almost nicer than by day, because there's practically no one else (except for the odd couple making out) and all of the city lights shining onto the water look so very pretty. Even though this bulding is not actually that high compared to lots of buildings in the states, I really love being up there.


What did you do Thursday night?

Love,

Rosy Smith

So, that was over in a blink, wasn't it? What did we even do all this time?

Started a new internship and got mean-tweeted in the process. You know, the main struggle in the life of a women's magazine reporter is finding real women to write about. Like, I was given the assignment to look for women who don't fit society's image of a perfect body and feel good about themselves, you know the drill. So I found a woman who has a blog where she's already written about her personal body love history and I thought she was really funny, and she made me think about maybe going to university some more once I finished this course, and I thought oh, maybe we'll have this inspiring conversation and she'll mention me in her blog, and then I hit her up with my interview request and she said "no". Well, she said "thanks for the offer but I'm not interested". Which is pretty close to plain "no". And since I had been reading her blog for days and therefore felt like she would usually have responded in a different tone, I was taken aback a bit. Didn't seem like she was gonna write about the aspiring young journalist who approached her ever so lovely. Seemed more like she was gonna write something about how I had the sheer nerve to even contact her. Let's check her twitter, just for fu-oh.

She actually did tweet about me. Two minutes after sending me her one-sentence blow-off, and not in a nice way. She called me a bunny. At first, I penned out a draft of an email where I'd tell her just how much of a misunderstaning this is and that I had all the best motives in asking her to participate and that I am just an intern with a dream and can't help the fact that these magazines advertise diets....and then she sub-tweeted herself with even more personal critique on my email, and I thought: No way, josé. Not gonna apologize for very politely asking a question that can be easily declined in an equally polite, less public way. I mean, did she think I wasn't gonna read this? Or did she want me to see it but thought it would spice things up a little to go cross-social-media? Who knows. I guess these things are to be expected when part of your work is to drag people out of the corners of the internet and into your weekly. Bunny out.



Went out every weekend and hurt my foot in the process. Funnily enough, what killed me wasn't the dancing until 4 am part, but the long healthy walk alongside the beach. Halfway through, I had to put a tissue into my shoe to stabilize my foot, and some little girl just stood there staring at me taking my boot off like I was performing a sketch. Her father couldn't get her to move until I got up and limped away like a pirate. I am obviously mesmerizing. Anyways, after telling everyone who listened how badly it hurt for two days, I went to the doctor, and he was lecturing me for wearing two year old inlays and high heels everyday, and I got out of there knowing that I didn't have that really bad condition I google-diagnosed myself with, but with no relief of pain at all, as you do.

Did Yin-Yoga and quit the studio. Okay that was misleading, I didn't quit because of the yoga, because I actually loved that - an hour of stretching really intensely and lying on your back with your eyes closed most of the time, how much better can exercise get? - but because I only have two weeks left here. I have not yet figured out how I feel about that, but I know I'm gonna miss that studio. 

Went home for 48 hours and ate my body weight in New York cheesecake. Good stuff. Nothing left to add.

Love,

Rosy Smith