Photographs were actually not allowed, oh well, here's my dress

Okay, so two lovely friends had gifted me a visit to the theatre for my birthday and since my bestest friend was off to Rome a couple days ago, we had to squeeze the visit in before she had to go, and this is how it went down....

I have literally JUST stepped out of my car and I can feel my nylons loosen around my thighs. Not because I miracously lost a few pounds, but because these are the ones I've worn on Friday that already got holes in them and are, apparently, not made out to be worn again. On the one day that I'm actually supposed to overdress a little. I text my friends if they can bring me some spare ones, but it's too late. I miserably sit on the platform and take a few pictures of my berry colored heels against the mud colored stone floor and post it to my newly beloved story.



I'm supposed to change trains now and I don't know which way to leave the platform. Oh and I look like a hooker, because I am constantly walking from side to side, holding my furry coat together at the front, my hand stuck between it trying to pull up my tights while in motion. Oh, and my heels are a bit big (for comfort, just like they royals have them) and I could walk a whole lot better in them if I wasn't hunched over like Quasimodo, so now I strut like him, too. It's my fourth round up here and running out of time, so I hide behind a pole (very uneffective if you were wondering) and gracefully step out of one heel at a time and roll my stockings down (not rouging my knees and all that jazz), pretending to be totally unfazed by literally undressing on a public train platform (this is a reoccuring technique throughout the whole story).

On I go, now barefoot in my heels meaning I'll also get blisters, schlepping myself into the subway and following the masses. I can practically feel the looks on my bare legs (even though honestly, a) it wasn't even that cold because I am wearing a BIG coat and have already lost all feeling in my legs due to wearing thights and sandals year-round, and b), in Britain, everyone is going around bare-legged until mid-November kicks in. People should educate themselves on their Victoria Beckham streetstyle), black fur and dark red lipstick. Not lusty ones, mind you, just disapproving/confused vibes.

Oh for God's sake, I'm on the wrong side, aren't I. I guess that means ten more minutes of having to silently defend myself for my goosebumpy legs and trying to remember when I last shaved them. Recording a voice memo for my loveliest friend to use the time wisely and inform all bystanders of the unfortunate circumstances that led to my dressing decisions. Maybe I can stop at a drugstore and buy some new ones, and three emergency packs, just to be safe.

Okay, so I finally met my friends and we do not have time to maybe stop at a drugstore and buy anything, so I'll just have to woman up until we're at the theatre. We do however manage to get a vegan kebap which I'm stuffing my dolled up face with while recounting the sad tale of Airbnb booking with college friends (oh yeah, that's why I was so late that I could not bother putting on freshly unpacked tights, I remember - a whole different saga, but hey, Hamburg's calling!).

The theatre is packed with high schoolers who are definitely being forced to write a report on this thing over the weekend. We're feeling very debonair with our drinks in hand and about the fact that we didn't get carded at the bar (wait does this mean we look old?). Since you can't take those inside and we're, who'd have thought, late for entrance, we chug 'em down in a very non-debonair fashion though, and I attempt to put my stockings back on without flashing a bunch of 16-year olds. Think I got by.

We're watching "Romeo and Juliet", by the way. Good old classic. Except it's a modern production and we're still emotionally scarred by the last one we saw, when we were in high school ourselves and took in some Schiller (it involved a lot of screaming, mud and black light). The costumes look....interesting. One guy's dressed as a frog and I am mentioning this only because he turns out to have the best body in this play. It's Mercutio, apparently, a slurring and swearing version of him. Romeo has tattoos all over and too many curls for my taste but he's taken, anyway, by an anemic Juliet who likes to break out into high-pitched screaming (there we go again) every once in a while.

This Mercutio sure has great muscle control. But he spits a lot, too, as they all do I should say, and I lean over to thank my bestest friend for anticipatorily booking second row because I bet the first got to share some of his saliva, and not in the good way.

The thing about these modern interpretations is, sometimes they're outright funny, as Shakespeare's supposed to be, and sometimes you're laughing because you just don't know how to react to the trauma you're experiencing.

Now poor Mercutio's dead at the hand of a very convincing sociopathic Tybalt and I'm honestly bummed about it. He's been my favorite in this crazy bunch. Romeo and Juliet are too sappy for my taste (not just these particular ones, the mere thought of them).

My friend seriously fell asleep when Juliet did and awoke to Romeo throwing himself on the floor. She missed, like, the whole tragedy. But that's okay, it's old news, really.

Except to the train security guy who attempted to hit on me on my way home (he saw me at the platform, bare-legged again, but I managed to scrape up my tights before he came to sit by me and chat instead of securing the wagon). I would have much rather listened to music but didn't want to be rude (he wasn't creepy, just really not my type) so I educated him on the bard until he tried to convince me that there was another Shakespeare play that had to do with experimental sex, and even though I am by no means familiar with all of them, I'm pretty sure he was making this up. So when he asked if I was single not only did I decline (little white lie), I also held up my beringed hand (it's a weird reflex I have) and let him believe I was engaged (ridiculously big lie). I even smiled in a bewitched gaze when talking about how yes, he is also still studying and no, the wedding isn't until we both get jobs. I almost bought it myself until I stumbled back to my car with my tights riding down and keys in my hand ready to stab a man if necessary (or at least give him a minor scratch to buy myself some running time, I'm no Tybalt).

So yeah, pretty eventful night - I'll have you know that Mercutio isn't as enticing when google-searched as he is when wishing a plague on both your houses, but that's already something, isn't it?

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

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

Okay, so I'm referencing my url in my CV and have to make an impeccably organized impression, at least concerning my internship search, so I won't be giving out any details on how that's going (if you got a suitable spot, still let me know though). However, I'll say that it is taking so much longer to upload applications and churn out cover letters than I always thought - even once you pick up a certain routine, at some point or another, either your WiFi will leave you hanging or you'll realize in sudden horror that you didn't add "Attached, you will find my portfolio" before the complimentary close and you'll start all over again. Aside from that....
 
I actually despite penne now. The catering at college made me; they never use a different kind of noodles and the pasta dish is basically the only thing I eat there so I have seen enough of them for a lifetime. I feel sick every time I have them. It's a tragedy of enormous magnitude. And a week from today, I'll have to get on the train (and I'll be kicking and screaming) to the place it takes place, even though I have just cozily settled into the stay-at-home life.

 I mean, it's really not fair; the first couple of days after break started, all I could manage was to get out of bed and in front of the TV, munching on cereal and waiting for lunch, basically, before I could do anything substancial. And then, I have been going to the movies and actually going out with different groups of friends....

The older I get, the more categories of friends I develop. There's the ones I've known all my life, who have an entirely different circle of their own now: We're still close in a way that doesn't require a lot of one-on-one time, but it just so happens that I get introduced to their crowd sometimes and try to pretend that I wouldn't gossip about it if they weren't friends of a friend - not because they're particulary gossip-worthy, but because that's what I do. So I attempt to make interesting conversation and fall into fast friendship with them, which seems to get harder with age (that age thing is really annoying) 'cause neither do I know the struggle of dorm partners nor do I ever meet anyone who shares my loath of photoshopping. With my school friends, who have proven to stay the most relevant for me, there's no such thing as desperately staring into space while brainstorming for a fun thing to talk about: They know everything 'cause they've been there with me and we could probably analyse the color of a room together and still enjoy it somehow.

Maybe that's why I can't bond with strangers.

And then there's people, also from high school, whom I'm not actually friends with but whom I've been friendly with at school and who've known me in my glorious days of getting voted Trendsetter in the year book; I've met some at a party this weekend and even though we have absolutely nothing in common, it felt like I was making casual conversation in the cafeteria line on my solid (ugly linoleum) grounds. Refreshing.

I did Valentine's Day without breaking my principles, so props to me! I never wanted to get all teddy-bear Hallmark card-y and heart shaped truffle-y and surprise hot-air-balloon ride-y and, um, you know (I ran out of cheesy stuff I swore not to support), and I am proud to state that I didn't practise any of those things while still sorta acknowledging that the date has a name. I wore a red dress, though, 'cause I'm not fundamentalist enough to spoil myself the fun of treating myself to a new outfit in the color of love. I'm not the grinch of St.Valentine's, for God's sake.

Oh oh oh and I finally stopped whining about my hair and how little there is of it and combing it straight so one can really see the see-through parts and then whining even more, but I went and got some extentions - I will take flattering pictures of how they look soon, but for now you'll have to believe me that they do make the sun shine a little brighter (is that a saying or did I just make that up? You decide). I can snappishly flip strands over my shoulder to match what I'm saying. So cool.

Now all I need is a new manicure and I'm ready to go back to fashion school; physically, at least. In all other ways, I couldn't be lessed tempted, but it's not like anyone will be able to tell.

You'll hear it first.

Love,

Rosy Smith

So, I'm not too informed on how other people handle this, but I feel like in a relationship, there have to be two kinds of occasions to meet the other person. On the one hand, it's the nights in with a movie or some board game (can't you just feel my youthful spirit) where you just talk and make out and stuff and eat pizza on the floor. Those nights are pretty great, don't get me wrong. In fact, I went out all day yesterday with my oldest friend and her crowd and by the end of the day I was really wishing I'd been having one of those pizza nights instead of standing around all day in flat shoes and still getting back pain from it.

However, the other kind of thing is as important as those: Real dates. As in "taking someone out for it".  Obviously, you have to think these ones through a bit more, and I find that especially hard (I like to be the one who gets taken out rather than the taker), but I've come up with some ideas to make it easier, so here we go:

Make sure that transportation is taken care of. There's nothing worse than having to figure out logistics for what's supposed to be a romantic adventure, so don't even suggest me taking the train to meet you somewhere. I'm a big defender of the old value of a man picking up a girl in his car. If you don't have one, or can only break out your family's old station wagon, don't give up: Just rent one! There's a peer-to-peer car rental company called Turo that allows you to choose from lots of different types of cars (even race cars, if you like it fast) without having to deal with a big rental company. I looked up available cars in New York just now, and even for little money you can get some pretty cool rides, no matter if you just want something to flash your date with when showing up at her doorstep or if you plan on making the car the attraction and head off to a week-long road trip. Check out their website!

Choose a place that feels like a date. I'm talking restaurants with dimmed lights and discreet waiters who appear by your side with a ghostly swoosh; jazz cafés with low chairs and a twenties-feel to them where it's not weird to start dancing tightly intertwined; old-school movie theatres with plushy seats, cocktail service and classic Hollywood flicks on the program. Not your local steak house with an all-you-can-eat salad buffet and screaming kids in the next booth. Give me something to dress up for, won't you?

Or choose a place that you feel your date would like. Obviously you can screw all of the above if you know that your special company would die for the Mac n Cheese at the Red Lobster (I've never been there, thinking about it, but who knows) but no one ever goes with her 'cause her friends hate seafood (whatever). Or if she is a Disney freak who'll gladly be joined by a mob of middle school girls on their class trip to the newest installment of Frozen (will there be installments? I should do my research more thoroughly). Anything that makes someone happy will make for a good date, so it doesn't need to be featured in the ten pm newsflash to go well.

Don't give anything away. I am so into being taken out, my vision of a perfect plan is a plain "Be ready at seven" eg. the fact that I don't have to plan a thing. Call me unfeminist, but I have no problem at all with not knowing how it's about to go down - I trust him with knowing enough about my idea of fun to not make me jump off a building or something else that will ruin my hair. Also, it's so much more like a sweep-me-off-my-feet movie scene where the hero just grabs the heroine's hand and shows her the beauty of the city/the fun of being a streetcat (AristoCats is the joy of my existence)/basically a good time.

Have fun, too. I am aware that I mostly talk about the took-outs part of the deal, but you see: A date is, essentially, simply something to do while you're spending time with someone you like, and who wants to spend time with a cranky human who doesn't like what you're doing at all? Right, so the point is that whatever you're doing, both of you should enjoy. Mood is everything, ain't it so?

Love,

Rosy Smith

....Did you know there were real magazine articles about that phenomenom? Poor copy editors had to spend time on trying to figure out possible motives for a habit that is, honestly, only adequatly described as wretched, impolite, arrogant, unnecessary crap. If you have a problem, just freaking say so instead of not saying anything at all, because truthfully, that still leaves your intentions open to interpretation and you could have it so much easier than that. A downright rejected woman might set your car on fire, but she'll only do it once and vanish out of your life afterwards (if only out of fear of charges). A ghosted woman, however, will have enough time on her hands and anger slowly boiling up while she's wondering if you'll ever get in touch that she might have become an expert on how to get rid of a body without traces by the point she's done with waiting.

I guess some guys have figured out the travesty of their actions by now and tried to redeem themselves, but sadly, they only make things worse by engaging in some other modern-day excuse for cowarding, called "breadcrumbing". Just think about having to explain that kind of vocab to your daughter one day. It is when boys ghost you for only a little while, and then, just when you're starting to realize how stupid they are, slide right back into your life with a sweet message turning everything upside down and, in your mind, explaining perfectly well why he ignored you before. That circle goes around quite a couple times, pushing you back and forth between bliss and bitterness and once you finally make the jump out, leaves you with nothing to really accuse him of.

Except the fact that he could have had the pure decency to be a man and just spit out the fact that he doesn't really want to be with you after all, and that that should have happened before you started to waste time and feelings on someone who doesn't deserve you.

Feel free to copy and paste this to your ghosts and breadcrumbers.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....The good and the sad:

The really sweet girl who joined our class last semester and has been on my team during the many class quarrels is leaving again already. I'm gonna miss her; She made me take the stairs every day, kept me company on many coffee runs and faithfully took that last class on fridays that everyone else blew off with me. I'm on my way to her goingaway-night just now. This really weird guy in a cap and sunglasses in the seat in front of me is talking through the space between our seats - I accidentally looked at his reflection in the window while innocently looking out of it and now he's turning to me, saying "I'm married, but I like you" and I am somehow not as flattered as he probably thought I should be. Right now I'm really trying not to meet his eye again. I think it's working, he shut up. Oh, now he's asking for my name. Stare at the floor, pretend you're deaf. Dang it, I can't even say that one sentence in sign language (does one really say "say" something in sign language or is it "sign"? I'm honestly curious about that). Good, now he's taken to talk to other random people in that very slurry voice, holding up his paper bag can and, um, starting to sing.

Alright, let's get to the good stuff! I'm actually going away on Thursday! Three days of Mallorca, a Spanish island (I know it's a way short trip but better than this cold drizzle here). I haven't packed a thing yet. That's because I want to take some sarongs and my flappy hat but the weather forecast says sensible shoes and maybe a light cardigan and we haven't come to a mutual agreement yet. It's going to be lovely, still - just think Tapas and walks along the seaside and Flamenco performances and tiny European boutiques (maybe they got lace-up boots!)....

Spoiler Alert: I'm on season eight of Friends and just in the middle of watching Rachel have her baby, and I so want her an Ross to get together already but I fear that they're gonna push my personal happy ending way back near the actual ending and that makes me sad. Not sad enough to stop watching it like a hypnotized rabbit every single night, of course.

Okay, so right this moment I found the perfect lace-up pair on Ebay, and for very little money, too (so it wouldn't even be that much of a bummer if they weren't comfortable) and now they're seriously telling me that my size is out of stock. I am considering if I might fit into a size 5, after all. This might be my only chance!

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm back! I'm free! I'm watching How I Met Your Mother in the morning and Friends in the evening and I only took the train once to go shopping and it was great. I'm on break aka the best two times of the year. Hence, I spent the last few days of January just sorta sitting there, recharging (and getting a weird neck pain. Now that I'm thinking about it, I might have gotten it from all the sitting in un-ergonomical angles). But now I'm getting bored and that means I need some missions!

I want lace up ankle boots with a square heel and I'm not taking a "we don't carry those" for an answer. I saw the perfect pair through the window of some store that was closed already, so I know they exist and I'm gonna own them. No one likes a good shoe challenge as much as I do. Also, I have already planned an occasion where I wanted to wear them so I'm in a bit of a rush.

Oh, now I accidentally closed this draft while narrowing down shoe choices. Haven't found the perfect one yet, but I'll let you know. It would be so much easier if people wouldn't keep making these structured soles.

Anyways, Jauary was, once again, crammy and way too casual when it came to doing my hair. A week ago from today, we had our final presentations and it they felt like being in labor for nine hours, just without the physical pain. We had a two hour delay and guess who was on last? By the time it was my turn I had a hard time remembering what I was supposed to be talking about, let alone which slide came on when, but I didn't really care because I just very much wanted to get out of that room that either smelled or got freezing cold and would have said anything to get it over with. I also got sent a picture of a naked Daniel Radcliffe with a horse (you know which one) and even though I'm still wondering why exactly someone felt the need to show me, it did kinda cheer me up.

Now onto the missions: It's time to go and fix my incredibly rebellious hair, start eating all food groups and find some dance crew that's looking for an unpracticed ballet dancer to do combinations to all my favorite songs. And that internship (I can start by September, just tell me where to show up), I always forget that one.

That wasn't really news to you, I know, but that's the beauty of January, it's just a big pause button. The actual start of the New Year is today (okay, yesterday, but I was busy yesterday so go with it).

Love,

Rosy Smith

Summer has always been the most inspirational season for me. It's that time of the year when you make plans to blow everyone away the first day of school, with your new Converse sneakers and skater skirt and the makeup you bought at Sephora's and the tan you got while lounging around the pool, always hoping for the boy playing Volleyball (or....some sort of game that involves a ball) in the water to notice you in time for you to have a quick summer fling 'cause it would be a good story to tell. Summer means not eating out of boredom but nice meals in chic dresses at night; it means balancing on the small line between beach hair and dreadlocks but not caring; looking like an apple glazed in sun lotion but having a healthy glow at all times; see, there's no bad things happening in summer, and I feel like the sun makes me so light and healthy and the warm breeze hugging my body and the hot stones between my fingers when I'm at the beach are just so real, in the most satisfying way.

Sounds pretty desirable, doesn't it? So this year, my loveliest friend and I have chosen to go to Italy; to a small town named Santa Marinella, just outside Rome, to be exact. We arrived after a flight on which we've probably painfully entertained the people three rows around us with our overly excited chatter (we can't help it, we're just not blessed with a ladylike, low laughter) and a short train scare ( because obviously the employees of Trenitalia had to speak up for their rights by putting down work just the one day we come to this country and have us seriously consider sleeping at the Trastevere train station, as if we didn't spend half our lives stuck at stations), walked three blocks only guided by me memorizing what I'd seen on Google maps....And there we were!

Tried to not get people in and that's the best I did with that

The door we blissfully skipped in and out of all week

As were about fifty other people, on the piazza (I just found out I spelled that wrong on approx. five postcards, oh well) lying between four streets of slightly run down but impossibly European stone houses. They were sitting on the steps, at the green and yellow tables of the lit-up restaurant, on the benches under the glow of the old-fashioned street lamps....Running after their children, babies as well, all up and wide-eyed at ten o'clock at night, or singing "I will always love you" very enthustiastically, and very out of tune, with the karaoke set-up by a small cafe right on the corner, and everyone was talking to somebody, and my friend and I were walking through all of this, mouthes hanging open as we took in the vividness of the scene we stumbled into - then, somebody talked to us. It was our landlady, who showed us into one of the stone buildings, up two flights of stairs (I almost died tugging my bag up there), and into a thoroughly cute living room. Most of the furniture might be Ikea, but Ikea is great, because everything in there was white and wooden and minimal and we could drop our bags right in the middle of the room to catch our breath and for our landlady, a sweet gal named Georgia, to guide us through the apartment. She turned on the gas stove for a second, and we'd nod, 'cause it seemed simple enough even though none of us ever uses a gas anything. Once she was gone, we did what everyone (I suppose?) does when they move into a perfect little space - hysterically laugh and tell each other how great it is, and how you're not tired at all, which is notably enough since you'd collapse into bed after being awake for that long at any other given day, and then we got into shaggy sundresses to match our undone hair (and face) and ran out to get right in the middle of the fun that seemed to go down at the piazza (just to warn you, I'll be talking about that piazza a lot). We sat in front of a new looking bar with the umm poetic name "Jekyll&Hyde - Healthy and Cocktail" (a look in the menu gives reason to assume the "Healthy" equals the salad choices in opposition to the Cocktails speaking for themselves) and ordered, wait for it, two Cokes. Aren't we sophisticated yet? However, it was worth the eight Euros we spent on that (though we didn't do it again - I mean, four Euros for a kids sized bottle of Coke!). An hour or so, we happily sat there soaking in the fact that we were really, absolutely there.

Our street, aka Hotspot of Santa Marinella

Does that count as a first day? I'd say it does. Don't worry, there's so much more to come.

Turning off the lights in Italy for now - mind the bugs!

Love,

Rosy Smith

....I'm proud to announce that after crampy, sleepy January, these last weeks have actually been quite eventful....

First things first, I finally found my camera charger! The second month of the year is not even over yet and I already fulfilled one of my (about three) New Years Resolutions! It was hidden in one of the jewellry boxes I keep all my cable stuff in. Who'd have thought. So, maybe there's a chance for me to improve my picture quality on here. Oh, and now there's always the option of becoming a vlogger. So many possibilities evolving....

My second resolution's been to talk less about trains, and I believe I've been doing quite well with that, too: However, I'll mention them now, since I'm currently sitting in one of  'em on my way to meet someone I wanted to see: remember me telling everyone important about how much I wanted that? I guess that did the trick, since he seems to be wanting to see me too. Anyways, I'm sitting here and getting really paranoid about my lips being dry - see, I've had lots and lots of balm on them this afternoon and when I took it off, it must have worked like a scrub as my lips basically fell apart in the process. So I did another scrub and now I fear I've missed a spot. My loveliest friend is texting me I should do a sugar scrub. If only I had a packet of that on me. I don't usually carry edible things in my purse, apart from gummi bears.
Furthermore, I need to press my lipstick down on a handkerchief which I, of course, never carry, either....I'd have an old tramp stamp, I guess that will do - what I actually was on about before starting to write anything is that this guy stared at me through the window and his shoes, studded black high-tops, are honestly the most hideous thing I've ever seen.

Staying at home on break is honestly a fabulous thing to do. I went skiing with my parents and everything (college, people whose messages I need to google half the time, etc.) nicely faded into the snow while I was doing my rounds and all I had to think about was what there's for dinner and if the ski rent guy would ask me out. He didn't, 'cause I only met him for about three minutes, but that's the point - I didn't really care. Now I'm back but still, I'm doing my papers, I'll scream if I need to read through another pet-related thread (my topic is clothing for pets. Feel free to share your opinion, I'll feel free to interpretate it so it fits my argumentation), but at the same time I love the feeling of making sense with my writing. I feel like it's gonna be great to be a freelancer - I might waste 3/4 of the day by looking at every single one of the 43 "Then and now" red carpet looks seventeen.com has put together and rediscovering Kelly Clarkson's "Already Gone", but by 6 pm I'll frantically be scribbling down designer labels for dogs 'cause I just had a great idea for an outro.

I also managed to get a new calendar for my beloved Filofax (yeah, I do adore my planner) - two months into the year, that ain't so bad, is it? I feel like I'm in control of things again, and I like it. I already filled it with lots of fun things before freedom as we (I) know it is changed again in exactly a week from now; shopping tomorrow, cinema twice, lots of the loveliest friend, oh and Ballet! I almost forgot, but I went to class for the first time in almost a year, and it was beautiful. I wasn't, during the length of it, 'cause I didn't have a good bun day and my cheeks seem to turn red after half an hour of exercise these days, but it's ballet - earthly things don't matter. I felt like I strained about ten different muscles afterwards, but I twirled around in the kitchen when I got home.

Where was I?

Right, my plans. Did you see Brooklyn, by the way? I did. Twice. Felt sick both times so that was good, but I loved the outfits. Give me a full skirt and oversized sunglasses and send me to Coney Island. Isn't it almost time for spring?

Stay sparkly, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....and then there's three at once. Is that how the saying goes? It's definitely proved itself again.
I was texting away yesterday evening trying to give advice on things I don't actually have a clue of myself and suddenly felt very chick-flick character like. Isn't that sort of excitement what we're hoping for all along, wish for every time we get together and moan about the dullness of things?

Well, here's what we get for that....

Finding out the hard way that college choices suck sometimes. Problems like these are too complicated and tragic to explain; however, it generally seems as if no matter what you plan for, and how beautifully that plan would work out, sometimes it all comes down to nothing again and it's zero percent your fault. It happens to the best of us, lovelies.

My unqualified advice: Loose your plans. Make a list of every single option. They might all sound horrible, but that's okay. Choose one. Any of those. Do whatever it says. Yes, that might still sound horrible. It's still okay, 'cause it's not so much about what you do right this moment, the point is that you do something in order to move. Don't ever stop moving.

Enough with the deep talk for now and onto the less life changing events:

Why have a crush when you can have a complication? Imagine this: He's cute, he's clearly being flirty, he doesn't call. Someone else is nice, he clearly saw you being flirty with the cute guy, and he's quick to ask you on a date because he's probably scared you'll be a goner soon on account of said cute guy. Isn't that the most annoying thing ever? Nice guy could barely have chosen a worse moment to make his move. What if cute guy didn't call 'cause nice guy begged him to let him have the shot? What if cute guy isn't gonna call 'cause nice guy got rejected and there's some weird bro code that says to respect nice guy's pride? What if you and cute guy go out and nice guy flings himself off a building? Why does he have to ruin everything you've ever wanted?

My unqualified advice: Ignore the nice guy. Call the cute guy (a little initiative never hurt no one. Except for the nice guy). Live happily ever after and proceed to ignore the nice guy. He did it to himself.

Oh, and me? I'm on a 3rd date today. I think. It's kinda like with my A-levels when my whole family was sick and I just sorta handled my stuff on the side. I'm weirdly zen. A little concerned about my lack of inner fireworks and my pickiness with food. In no particular order.

Thankful for any advice. Qualified or not.

Love,

Rosy Smith

 

....Remember how people were talking about the January Blues, and how SAD everything seems after New Year's has passed and one doesn't have an excuse to eat all day and watch movies anymore, and how nobody needs snow after Christmas?

Well, turns out things don't necessarily get better in February. This isn't a personal concern, 'cause I'm actually quite cozy at home right now, but rationally thinking about it, these misfortunes come up:

Falling in love isn't fun in February. Nobody wants to do that at this point. All people want is get warmer, get a different job and go to a different place, and all of that is possible and probably better if you do it all by yourself, 'cause one is usually a bit cranky during this month and not in the mood to put up with a different opinion on top of it all. One should always try and fall in love in May. Or, even better, in August.

I mentioned it: It's still as cold as it can be. There's still snow, which is an unsolicited attempt of compensation for its absence at Christmas.  The past is the past, my friend, and all our thoughts go towards Spring, where we've heard it gets better.

It's one of those funeral months. That's probably not a statistically proven fact. However, I feel like February is especially suited for a crying sky.

Valentine's Day. Oh, please. Who thought it'd be a good idea to celebrate those butterflies at a time when all you want is be left alone with your blanket and a nicely unrealistic novel? See above: I'd suggest May or August instead.
And all this talk about how you don't need to be in a relationship to have Valentine's Day. I'm suspecting people made that up because of all the After-Christmas-Breakups in January, there weren't enough consumers who'd buy the cheesy cards and freshly cut flowers. Candy had no sales problems, though, 'cause no one cares for the heart shape as long as there's chocolate.

Times are a'changing in February. In January, while things might be dull, at least everyone and everything is still numb and unable to move (food coma and all). Now, however, life starts to roll again, and that means things happen. Some good, some bad, some sad. Still, people aren't in the position to deal with them yet. I know I'm not. In April, maybe. April seems like a good month to get your life together.

For now, I suggest we all take a break from the exhaustion February is confronting us with. Mine is to go skiing and pretend it's Christmas all over again. What's yours?

Love,

Rosy Smith

....don't start on me, but it was too sweet a sight that presented itself to me on the train the other day. Firstly, there was a man beside me, with dreads in his hair and a canvas duffel bag on his knees, reading a book on capitalism. I know it's wrong to categorize people, but why wasn't he taking a look at the latest Danielle Steel? Because you rarely see people with canvas duffel bags clutching a nice tale of betrayal, even if it's second on the Time's best seller list. It's such a shame. I get that you care about our society, and the environment, and everything. In fact, I got you at "canvas". You can stop there.

"I'm scared to be caught photographing strangers"

Cut to two women across from me. The one on the right is prettily put together, in a fashionable blue dress with yellow flower print, a cashmere scarf 'cause she cares for quality, a light grey wool coat just right for this season and an impractical handbag. She's listening to music on her Iphone and as I let my gaze wander down, I notice that she's even taken the time to pick blue socks to match her dress. To me, that's the ultimate proof of having your life together. Everything about that woman seems to say: "I'm a grown lady, I have a good job and I'm damn great at it because I give all I have to get where I wanna go - that's why my tights don't have holes in them, too". A little intimidating, but also impressive.
As she left, she fumbled out a packet of rolling papers and impatiently put a cigarette together, then stuffed the rest back in. She didn't look too happy, but maybe she had just had a bad day. Maybe she'd tripped and fallen on her knee in front of her crush from work. Oops, now I'm doing it again, explaining all of life's troubles with men. She might as well have fallen in front of her female boss before a big presentation or something. But seriously, what would be the better story here.

The woman on the left is extremely different. To speak metaphorically, she's probably wearing socks that don't match and one of them is striped. She's still into colored jeans. She's wearing a rucksack, 'cause it's ergonomically wiser. That's also the reason for her choice of footwear, I guess; otherwise I'd have to say that she didn't find her way out of the child's section. Anyways, to compensate that impression, she's reading a book I won't name - however, it's very cynical and very "I'm a college student and the only girl in our IT class".
How did I get so mean? Just wondering.
I wish I could find some surprise element about her, but I feel like superficiality is frowned upon so much 'cause us poor superficial thinkers can't possibly tell how smart and fun and amazing someone is by judging their appearance, so all we say sounds like a roast. I'm sure she's lovely.

Last but not least, a look to my right and I spot a guy whom I identify to be Russian, as he's apparently speaking that language on the phone. He's wearing nice things. Lace up boots, which is a safe choice in a world where trainers are considered shoes by some. Random shot: He's a musician. He doesn't have typical musician hands, but they've got something about them I can't place. He's smiling to himself sometimes, then looking straight ahead again. He might be practising some really hard classical piece in his head and he's acing the best parts, so that makes him smile. Beneath his shirt, he's wearing a thin gold necklace. The Russian kid from my school used to do that, so let me jump conclusions here.

So, what do we learn from this? You shouldn't categorize people. But sometimes, you can't help but notice. It certainly passes the time.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....as you probably guessed by my waffling on about imaginary scenarios and the likes, I fantasize a lot. About everything. Going out for dinner tonight, dressing for parties - I even imagined the way I'd flick my eyeliner up the day before I met up with my ride or die. It's either an OCD or an overboarding fantasy induced by reading countless novels since forever. I like to think it's the latter.

Anyways, I actually experienced one of those scenarios yesterday, on my way to meeting her - I ran into a guy from high school at the station whom I used to think was cute. He still is; I just don't think about him anymore. So the situation turned up a little too late for me and instead of trying to convince him of my fabulous self, I was kinda distracted and "hm"d and "ah"d in reaction to him telling me news probably worth more than the occasional mouth sound and beaming smile. It was mainly because he'd blogged about the whole "year abroad gone wrong" thing and I'd read it because that's what I do, I read other people's blogs, too. Didn't mention that to him, though, 'cause this isn't the time to make him think I like him and it would be just my luck to give that impression now, when I have other people, I mean things, on my mind.

And now I've told everyone important about that, which is something I usually put off until I don't need to do so anymore, and it's such a weird feeling to actually be a grown-up, actively-taking-things-in-hands-person for once. It's nice, I feel like. It opens up so many more possibilities. And so many more "could-be"s. It could work out. It could be amazing. It could also be terribly disappointing. But I guess you'll have to take that risk in order to find out what exactly it will be.

Well, if that wasn't a perfectly philosophical start of February then I don't know what is. Don't worry, we'll still have a ball this month.

Let's see what we come up with.

Love,

Rosy Smith