Being in a new city means being lost on generally all information valid to daily life whatsoever, but there's lots of advice and top-tens and tripadvisor reviews out there to make sure you stay alive and get a picture of the oldest chapel around. However, there's not so much wise words for those of you who are interested in the, um, locals, but do not wish to take the drastic measure of swiping your phone screen dirty. Well, I'm here to help y'all out with suggestions.

Of course without granting any guarantee or use from this.

Platform chat. I saw living proof of this fairytale unraveling the other morning. A security guard used his morning shift for good, flirting with a blonde college student and escorting her into the train like a public transport VIP (I wish that was a thing). He wasn't my kind of sexy, but I guess almost every guy who does not have some kind of hideous feature, strong body odor or fangs for teeth will appear attractive to some girl out there. You know, every pot has its lid and all. Is that a condescending statement, a philosophical questioning of beauty definitions or just a snarky comment? Your decision. So anyways, if you see a guard that floats your boat, linger by the tracks.
Conversation starter: "So, do you have a car?"

Deliver y guy. Don't get too excited, 'cause I don't, if you know what I mean. It's just essentially the only straight male figure showing up at the office (apart from the middle-aged lunch cashier that I paid in pennies today. Which he was actually pretty nice about) so it's all I got for you. I never did so much as uttering a "thanks" and guessing his cigarette brand from the smell while giving him crappy signatures up until now, but I guess you could seize those close-up moments to their full potential if you wanted to.

Conversation starter: "So, that your package?" (Oh no she did not)

Plane person. That guy you've chosen when you scanned the seats around you for someone you could force to help you get your carry-on down from the storage shelf. He doesn't like kids, judging from the looks he gives the toddler behind him who dares to make noises, and is a light sleeper, since he doesn't manage to actually sleep even though he has headphones in, but he holds his crotch even while not-sleeping as if he had to protect himself from all the girls that get too giddy when there's turbulences. He's not exactly your best catch, I'd say. Though he, for one, is conversatively attractive.

Conversation starter: "So, how'd you get stuck in economy?"

Try these and tell me what happened.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I actually haven't been to that many big concerts in my life yet which is something I need to change, because I absolutely adore everything about them: The mess of wires and obscure constructions on the ceiling (I know they all do stuff but I like being oblivious), the lights, the people-filled floor, the adrenaline radiating from the people on stage....I went to one of my favorite nostalgic artists this friday; my loveliest friend and I discovered a long time ago that we shared an undying passion for a certain singer since, like, primary school, and we vowed to go see her in concert someday and unlike many "somedays", this one actually worked out! 

What to note before entering a concert: "Okay everyone LISTEN If one of us gets lost...." "Yeah?" "....we'll have to find each other"

Unexpected downer: When you don't realize that there's a no-food policy (why oh why?) and your loveliest friend has to throw her chocolate rolls away at the door and feels bad about the food waste and general world hunger for the rest of the night ("I told you we should have just stuffed them in our mouth right before we went in! Dare them to touch us!)


Unexpected upper (in the most literal sense): The DJ who supported the opening act was either supposed to be a pantomime and illustrate the songs or his,um, strong body movement was the result of a couple colorful coins....at one point he was so estatically waving, I was scared he might put out a shoulder joint. And the whole time he had the enchanted smile of one of these bald monks from Asia. It was awesome.

Obviously we managed to stand behind two of the tallest people I've ever seen, but good for them that they each found a partner their height. I could still see fine, though, and that brings us to the next point:

I crush way too easily on people on stages. The opening act would probably also look nice if you met him on the street, but as I saw him up there, he had the most incredible cheekbones, his squinty eyed expression was a sign of concentrated passion and his comfy clothes expressed not his laziness but the nonchalance of a true artist. I don't know, I can't help myself. The guitarist of the actual act didn't fail to make me swoon, as well, because of his serious skill - later, I saw a picture of him that didn't impress me at all. Maybe it's cause I see them all a bit slurry from far away. You know, airbrushed.

The main event itself, seeing that singer live, was just wonderful: She has such an amazing,jazzy voice and still manages to be all bubbly and jumpy and sweet. Kinda wanns go again.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Just think, halfway through this month I realized that I didn't do a proper insight in September. Oops. Take this instead (the link is in the "this" in case that isn't clear).

However, here we are, at the end of October, otherwise known as Halloween! When you're reading this I'll be out and about in a ruffled skirt I've been wearing for this occasion since I was ten and a little witch-hat-tiara, following the invitation of a couple as - gasp - part of a couple myself.
I think I need a paper bag.
See, I really like to go out dancing, but I've never actually went with, well, a guy. I don't know how to dance around a guy. Or rather, I do, but that would be weird since we're already kind of involved so there wouldn't be much of a point in sparking his interest in me via my dancing - Gosh, that was probably the most unfeminist thing I've ever said. Scratch that. I'll just dance by myself, for myself only. I am my own happy place and all that.

Now that's settled, I'd like to formerly announce that it will be my birthday in 36 days (as of now, the 27th) and that I'll be 20 years old (oh, dear Lord) and that I have absolutely no clue how to savor this grand event adequately. Cocktails? Might be too noisy and dark to chat with more than the two people next to me. Dinner? Same thing because long tables. And a full mouth. A get-together at home? Not dressy enough. If people ignore my outfit guidelines, that is. It's a tough decision, lovelies.

Realization of the month: I was so much funnier in February to June WhatsApp conversations than I feel like I am in my current ones. My previous moments of inspired remarks actually made me laugh in hindsight like the self-invested person I am, whereas nowadays, I like to start dialogues by sending an unsolicited picture of a box of gum. That reminds me that I haven't gotten an answer to that yet. I guess I can't blame anyone here, though - I'd have a hard time to figure out a) how to respond at all and b) what's wrong with someone who doesn't have anything more profound to say than "Look, it's Mentos' bubblegum". Takes some time.

Anyhow, victory has struck in the hoodie harness! I'm free to show up to the shoot in something pretty as long as it's all-black. I'm overflown with joy. But more stupid decisions are threatening to be made regarding other projects: I don't yellingly interrupt the girl briefing our make-up artist for one second and she's already asking her to smear gel all over the model's face and buy red mascara out of nowhere. I swear that's how these things end up happening in editorials. The only sane person in the room probably sneezed and closed their eyes for a blink and suddenly, the stylists cut off all the pants in a fit of creativity and now we all have to deal with finding the right shoes to go with "culottes".

Fashion formula: Freezing before heating. Doesn't work as a rhyme but you get where I'm coming from; I need to remember every morning that I generally feel better in sheer nylons and heeled shiny boots than I do in thermo tights that catch all the cat hair and flat muddy shoes. Even though my body tries to convince me otherwise when I'm shivering in front of my closet at 6am, urging me to reach for the sweater I've been wearing around the house for five days, because it feels so much like my blanket. I'll regret that thought as soon as I run into the first person I know who hasn't seen me since high school and will now remember me forever as the short girl who suffered from a heatstroke on a train, rattling out "I have so much nicer clothes!" before collapsing in a huddle of stone colored wool and worn-out black jeans.
No, thanks. I'll take silk blouses and slit-up skirts over that anytime. The cold never bothered me aaaaanyway....

Stay warm by being hot stuff, lovelies.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....Frankly, I think I lost my battle against the hoodies. For now. They're not in stock at the moment and I'm crossing every finger I have that the hideousness gets dropped.

Also, I'm cold, I just missed my next connection, I haven't eaten all day (I tried to have some strawberry yoghurt but they put bits of fruit in it  - how could they?) and there are way too many people on this platform. I'm also elegantly carrying an open bag with my sleep shirt stuffed in for everyone to see, clenching my laptop so I don't get a hunchback from my other bag I've swung over my shoulder. I just hope I fit through the train door if it ever shows up.

There's a mom in here, standing with a baby strapped onto her body that is dressed in an adorable striped suit with a hood (the only time they're cute) with ears. The baby's not making a whimp, either, so I allow myself to consider it sweet. However, the mom has a toddler with her as well, with blonde ringlets and more hair volume than I currently have. The girl wants to sit down, so it crouches onto the single stair between compartments. "Don't put your hands on there or people will step on you", the mom says. And she says it many, many times - I'm afraid for my fingers by this point. The train stops, people come in, walking up the stairs, scooting past the little girl, but one unlucky man with Beats on his head ever so slightly puts down his foot inches too far on the left and brushes the girl's tiny fingernails - I see everything in slow motion, thinking "Nooooooo for God's sake" - and needless to say, disaster strikes. The girl says "Ow.". And starts bawling. Cue to the mom to begin going "Oh, no, I told you not to put your hands on there" again, and again, and again, and the girl changes it up by alternating between "Ow" and "Mommy" and I think I'm having a nervous breakdown. I have so much respect for mothers who mildly endure their children not ever shutting up.

Finally! I'm breathing the fresh Connectictut air, I can see the car that's supposed to pick me up, I get into it without a word, my bags a mess in the legroom, he turns the key - nothing. Just a weird, stuttering sound with slight similaritiy to what an engine should sound like. "We have a problem", he says. I burst into a fit of (okay, hysteric) giggles. "No, we really do", he says. "I know", I chuckle, "Sorry". I can't help it, it's such a classic "Can this day get any worse?" and the day being like "Oh yeah, I actually can" situation that it's starting to get funny (excruciatingly so, but still funny). It's hard to explain though, so I understand why he's not laughing with me. I mean, it's his car that appears to be breaking down. And I'm not exactly helpful crisis company, as you can imagine. Neither do I have a clue on what to do when a car doesn't start (Except calling my Dad) nor do I have calming things to say or constructive comments to make ("We could walk away and never return"). Oh well. He doesn't seem to mind that much / is too sweet to say "Damn, I really wish my friend who likes motor sports was here with me instead". Anyways, help is coming (He called his Dad, so technically, my approach has been pretty sensible after all) and all I can concentrate on is the pizza I'm gonna stuff my face with as soon as we get home so I'll leave it at that.

Hope you had a sparkly weekend that didn't involve anything on wheels.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Now I know that in this day and age, not everyone feels the need for an introduction like this. You yourself might be a defendant of the easy going, laissez-faire style of texting culture which implies that "it's not a big deal, you text whenever you want and answer whenever you see it. What rules?"

In that case, bless your innocent heart.

Obviously I don't know what your exact arrangment with your significant other is on that part of your relationship - it might not even be relevant. You might exchange romantic hand-written loveletters sprizzed with perfume, for all I know. However, for everyone who simply does not have a clue what their partner expects, this is how you definitely don't disappoint:

Emoticons: Do use them. It just looks more lively and lets me know you like me enough to make the effort to choose a smiley face that enhances your message for me and that's reassuring and I like to be reassured. But if you use them, do it continously. Nothing makes me more uncomfortable than a single emoticon-free message in a sea of blushy cheeks and winks. Even if it's a simple "Okay" it'll sound like "Okay! God, you're annoying/I'm not exactly okay with this but I don't want to deal with you headcase" to me, because only a "Okay :))" will give me the fuzzy feeling I need when conversing with you.

Still, you shouldn't solely and exessively use emoticons or I'll get the feeling you're either too lazy to actually phrase an answer or you don't have anything to say to me.

Timing: To be on the safe side, reply when you see it. Except when you're actually busy (driving, dying, in a million dollar conference count as "busy", for example) or need to check something in order to have an adequate answer (movie tickets, hotels, your mom's birthday). Consequently, be aware of the fact that I'm likely to re-reply again so you need to check your phone from time to time (daily would be a good minimum- so I know you're not dead/have not stopped liking me within the last 24 hours, whatever seems more likely).

Emotional Level: I get it, not everyone likes to express their undying adoration for somebody through 144 characters (need to google how many characters it really is but you get me). But a "Can't wait to see you" already makes so many of us happy and takes our mind off the fact that there were no empty seats on the train - it's not that hard. No one asks you to propose via text. No one wants you to do that, actually.

Golden Rule: Two or more days of not texting are considered rude since it's in some people's genes (mine) to start getting absolutely irrational deamings about the relationship and the meaning of life and listen to "Forever and Always" by Taylor Swift while solemny staring out of the train window and therefore your fault, not theirs. Don't be that guy.

If everyone did this the world would be a much less hysterical place.

Love,

Rosy Smith

....Let me start off by saying that all those things I told you to worry about might not necessarily have been a problem when I went away last weekend - but hey, how could I have known?

Well, lovelies, I had a pretty good time. So good that I was sincerely sad when we had to leave. Not that I expected not to be sad (I don't think I've ever been anywhere I was glad to leave from, so either my standards are really low or my vacations really good), but again, am I a future teller? As much as I didn't know about that, I didn't know that the city we've been to is an island (it feels so much cooler to go to an island, more exotic, than - not to go to an island, I guess), or that we'd live in a street where all houses were made out of bricks and full of small boutiques, one of them being in our building (could there be anything more suiting for me), or that there would be a big farmer's market in the central square every day (small town people have so much celebration stamina it's amazing), or that we'd go out to eat in this fancy historical restaurant with chairs in the powder room and then walk home in the freezing cold and write stupid things on sidewalks with chalk (don't even ask, I feel juveline already). However, those things turned out to be some of the best parts - there's a reason I like to be surprised.

A surprise of the bad kind, though, was the fact that I had to sprint through a museum they had mischievously constructed like a labyrinth so you may never find your way to the restroom twice and later run past the lovely powder room chairs repeatedly during the meal, irritating the staff and probably my company, although both parties were too polite to bring it up. Just marvelous. You might think there's no stigma around the topic of UTIs, but I have personally created one just for myself so I feel as bad as I would were I to have chlamydia WHICH I DON'T. Do I sound overreacting? I MIGHT AS WELL BE.

Let's change the topic to make me feel better about myself. Right now I'm unpacking my suitcase (only a week after I packed it, good score for me) and it takes SO much longer than randomly throwing in stuff, it's already annoying me. And I only took out two pieces.

Anyways, I proudly present to you Hoodies From Hell, the newest installment in our daily fashion school dramedy soap. Let's not be too dramatizing here (seriously, who am I trying to kid). However, I need to explain my general problem with hoodies to you. I bought the first black hoodie of my life when my English Lit class went on a field trip to Scotland and we all traveled in uniform. Our printed-on motto was "You can't repeat the past, old sport", which I actually found pretty witty ('cause Gatsby), and my friends and I sewed little Edinburgh themed patches on them. Still, as much as I - well, loved would be a strong expression, but let's say I'm fond of that sweater, and I've never worn it again. The second hoodie I bought was to match my whole grad class and it has our graduation motto (which was so bad I'm not telling you) as well as every single name of every single person I ever went to school with on it and that, my friends, is not something you want. Not at all. The best part about it was that on the day we were supposed to stand on our school's rooftop together and tearfully (and for the mostpart, hungover) wave our goodbyes, I wasn't even there. In fact, I was in the city applying to fashion college instead of wearing a stupid black sweater along with a ton of people I don't like who were doing the same. Looking at it from that angle, I might have even made the right decision that day! Oh well. Worth a try.
See, apart from the obvious - the fact that a black hoodie is in no way conform to my idea of a good look (or any look at all) and I do not care to spend money on clothing that I already know I'll never, ever in my life wear again, especially not if the word "hell" is printed on it, ruining it forever just like my former classmates' names -, those things are warm. Way too warm to be worn on the inside. I actually get a bit claustrophobic in them, somewhat menopausal. Why would I want to test that phase of my life I already dread right now, voluntarily?

The answer is, I wouldn't want that. So, when some of my current school peers suggested that we all buy a black hoodie and print our magazine's title "hell", on it in a gothic font and wear it for the editorial shoot, I flinched. I exchanged glances with another girl who didn't look quite ready to run out to the Dollar Store and get one, too. We said "Let's discuss it with the whole group", hoping that the absent ones are totally against that plan and help us outvote it. "It might be too expensive for some", we said, perfectly aware that there might be really, really cheap black hoodies out there. We're grabbing straws here, lovelies. Uniting forces. "But we're also wearing them at the magazine launch", said one of the hoodie supporters. "We are?", I gasped. WE ARE?
I guess I won't be making an effort to bond these days, either. Cause I'm definitely not wearing something I get hot, eg frizzy haired in, to a magazine launch. That's the final drawstring.

Love,

Rosy Smith