Hello, welcome, hi, so good to see you here! Lovelies, it's been a while. Last time we talked, I was still figuring out my hair and freezing in my nylons, now I am on my second round of tapes and cannot bear to wear anything other than a bikini because my Gosh it's hot. So we got a lot of catching up to do....

I am sososo close to being done with university altogether - I have handed in my dissertation yesterday (and found a spelling mistake on the very front page two hours before the deadline, so we swerved that bump in the road that would've haunted me for the rest of my life; by the way, the title is '"I choose my choice" - Portrayals of "The Housewife" and "The Working Girl" in "Sex and the City" versus "The Best of Everything"', if you wanna add me on researchgate or whatever) and the only thing left for me to overcome is the viva voce in two weeks. I'm very pleased with myself, thank you very much - getting my BA is sort of a passion project of mine (I know, I have wild passions) in order for me to feel better about myself, and I need to capture that feeling, because....

Now I am job hunting and I hate it already. Please refrain from telling me how lucky I am that my parents aren't throwing me out as soon as the ink on my diploma has dried. If that wasn't the case, I would've started freaking out in January, okay? So far, I am waiting for five feedbacks, four of which are unsolicited applications to publishing houses that have a bunch of magazines each, so technically it's many, many offices I've covered. The problem with unsolicited applications is that no one wants you to call and ask, since they didn't ask you to apply in the first place (which is probably already bothering them, so pestering everyone answering the phone with my fear of failure = not bound to be helpful). It's just that the sheer uncertainty of whatever is gonna happen within the next few months - will I move somewhere? get a job? an unpaid internship that'll force me to live at home and take the train everyday? - is bothering ME very, very much. So the bottom line is, if you know someone who'd pay me a living wage to write stuff for them, you got my email.

Let's not think of that too much, though, 'cause it is summer, after all! I went to Rome to see my bestest friend and it was wonderful and way too short - I didn't even eat any pasta, there was just too much to devour in such little time. The weather! The sights! The scenic streets with bars in front of which you can drink! No Italians for me though; their curly hair and general tendency to be short in height rules out most of the locals for me. My friend, however, is basically in a country filled with her type, and the fact that she can speak more Italian than my "Ciao, studio giornalismo di moda, e tu?" and is obviously gorgeous should rev up her chances pretty high.

This just to get you up to speed - since I have loads of free time now, between scanning job offers and crying about them, I'll talk to you very soon about the truly exciting stuff.

Stay tuned!

Love,

Rosy Smith

I'm watching a video by Safiya Nygaard about the ZozoSuit and I wrote about that thing in my trend forecasting class this year and now I feel really advanced.

Anyways, there's one thing on my mind basically at all times these days, and to the surprise of many, it's not a hopeless scheme to get a guy to text me back but something of way more existential substance: My hair.

It's new, I bought it about two months ago, and I'm still absolutely fascinated by it. As you can probably see, it's not like I got a full-on Baywatch weave now, but it's the little things about it that make me so happy:

I can feel it in other places than my face. Recently, I used to only ever really consciously notice my hair when a) it was so windy it clung to my face like a climbing plant or b) when I breathed in too powerfully and almost choked on a strand being vacuumed into my mouth with the air. At all other times, it was just floating around my head like a lightweight ball of cotton candy. Now, right this moment as I am writing this, some of it is stuck in the back of my sweater, covering my neck and the place between my shoulder blades, while some of it - yes, there is so much that there is still something left - hangs down over my shoulders and upper arms. When I wore a sleeveless top the other day for the first time in a while, I could feel it graze my back and elbows constantly. I remember that sensation from back when I was a child, leaning forward with my knees pulled to my chest and covering my legs with my hair. This probably reads really creepily, but you have to understand that I almost forgot what that feels like.

Consequently, I don't freeze my head off anymore. One fun fact about having really thin hair that gets lifted off into space as soon as there is the echo of a breeze is that it does not have any warming function whatsoever, and that is actually the whole purpose of having hair on your body. Now, I don't get a burning pain in my ear everytime I have to spend time in the cold anymore, which is lovely. However, I've been out dancing the other day and I gotta say this is gonna be interesting when it gets hot outside, because I can't just throw all this up in a bun as casually as I could - I have to flip the tapes over and try to hide them with my own material because there's nothing less attractive than what looks like ten sticky tapes exposed all over your scalp. Oh well, you pay a price for everything.

When it gets tangled (and it likes to do that a lot), I can brush it thoroughly and feel like a princess. Do you know what happens when you brush my natural hair? It basically blow up into a cloud of nothingness that goes absolutely electric as soon as touched. New hair? Falls into soft, big waves that fan out over my shoulders. I still can't quite grasp the magic here.

When I wear a hoodie, (which I don't, but think early Nicole Scherzinger in PCD) I can actually pull out some hair from underneath it. When I look at pictures, I'm not shocked by the ends of my hair resembling a frayed carpet. When I lean forward, it actually hides my face (like in that scene in Twilight when Bella watched Edward in Biology class in secret, the book, not the movie, don't ask why that's on my mind). If a guy was ever to romantically tuck a strand of my hair back, he could do so without suddenly holding half of it (by the way, I have a lot to say about the whole "living with extentions while talking to guys"-topic so let me know if you'd like to hear it).

What I'm saying is, it gives me so much and asks for so little (leave-in conditioner, half an hour of blowdrying, some gorgeously smooth oil and a ponytail to bed, what a sacrifice. Oh and money, right, almost forgot about that) - what's not to love?

Love,

Rosy Smith

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

Lovelies, hold your Cosmos and have a sip, 'cause it finally happened: I got to take my diploma and a rose and turn my back on fashion school! Anyone who's been here since 2015 has heard me moan, gossip and exaggerate about it for so long, they probably feel like they went there, too. But sometimes even I had something nice to say about it all, as I do tonight:

There was a nostalgic "through-the-years"-power point presentation and I'm a sucker for that. Sure, the pictures of the first and last days of school were simply horrifying, but there was a clip of me being editor of a project and scribbling away into my notebook, wearing a green pinafore dress and feeling très important, and I think I went "aww" pretty audibly (audible? Language's caving in on me already).

Also, who cares about those dumb old photos, I got great hair now. And by that I literally mean now, since I've only had it for half a week - college made my hair fall out (at least that's one of my top five theories, allergic reaction to artsy neon light), so to mark this new glorious chapter of my life, I blew on all supplements, lentil stews and head massages and got tape extensions. I'm touching my head every five minutes to check if they're still there and not peaking through like in the nightmare I had the night before I got them done, but I'm irrevocably hooked on them. Everyone at graduation went "Oh my GOD your HAIR" and tucked at the strands; it's very sweet how much they emphasize.



Some of us were so hyped we didn't want to leave yet, after all canapés were munched up and the fizzy wine called for real food, so we relocated to the one restaurant that took us in (spontanously needing a table for ten on a friday night in the city isn't the brightest idea, but we're not known for our thorough planning anyways) and I had baked mozarella - a homage to my Hamburg days and the fact that I a) can't cook and b) have questionable food cravings.



Anyways, I posted some pictures to show the fitness guy what an amazing weekend I'm having, or rather, how amazing my hair looks. That's the main purpose here as well, actually, so did you take a good look?

I'll stop being this obnoxious sooner or later, I think. Maybe.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Me Shamelessly Cropping People Out Of Photos

Is it just me or does this month feel like it is never ever ending? Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, 'cause I have spent the last week doing absolutely nothing productive whatsoever and have a deadline coming up in February, so I could use a little timelapse, because lately I have been....

Day 13

So the shoes I bought look lovely and all, especially the overknee-sweater combination I got going on, but I'm kinda already limping with pain and we haven't even made it to my oldest friend's house. But hey, I'm here, the sun is out, the town looks like a made-for-TV British Christmas special and I so absolutely love to finally see my friend again. She takes me to a coffee shop for a jetlag-fighting brownie and extremely expensive macchiato (hi, Pound) and I meet her Asian housemate, who studies linguistics (am I already violating data protection? Oh well) and seemed very sweet. I'm sleeping on a military style futon in my friend's dorm, but having never lived in a dorm myself, even that excites me. As does the town itself - there are so so many different colleges, and they all are built like small separate castles, with a square yard, lots of bricks, old chapels and romantic bridges - oh, and the cutest bridge is the one we have to cross on our way home, which goes right over the Cam (if you ever wondered how that name came to be, it's quite obvious) and is so narrow that you have to watch your step instead of watching the traditional Punting boats in order not to trip in front of a bus. Adorable, really. The Christmas lights are out and we make plans to do all our gift shopping in one go, maximising our luggage limit and credit card bills for good fun.


In the evening, you go sit in the college's own bar (everyone who regularly goes to college is probably yawning by now, but to me, a commuting, fashion-school-where-everything-is-different alumni who had nowhere to go at school but to the basement to enjoy not having phone service and/or food, everything I'll be describing has made an everlasting impression on me), which we did with another girl who's from India and doing economics. She's also really funny, even though I'm not sure she means to be, but whatever. Another guy comes in, gets a drink and asks to sit with us, so I assume he's also part of the group (he wasn't - apparently at other schools, you can dare to sit with strangers without getting stare-daggered) and introduce myself. We end up playing Activity and he compares me to Snow White, which I like to hear. He has curls, though (I've said it before and I'll say it again, can't take those seriously on a man).



Day 14

Receipts everywhere, gifts on the floor, my futon and stuffed into bags, all mixed with my pajamas, hair extensions and clothes I'm changing into for tonight. I got my whole family covered for Christmas, even members I've never met before. My feet are killing me, although I skipped my unnecessarily polished fashion sense and put on some of my friend's sneakers that are two sizes too big for me for the day. We are asked to watch a movie with some people, and then they put on a Netflix show that is way too scary for me so I try to blend that out and think of something warm, such as my new Cambridge sweater that I could not resist getting, even though it is a bit hypocritical of me, because I never had one of my own (see, getting overly excited again).



Day 15

There's supposedly brunch available at some colleges, but since most students are gone for the holidays and there are formal parties going out every day, my friend and I spent the better part of the morning touring the town on the lookout for some English Breakfast (not gonna lie, I like those tomato beans) and then "settling" for authentic Indian food instead. "Settling" is not the right word though - I have no idea what I had but it was amazing. I got no food pictures from this trip by the way 'cause I always dove right in. Then it started pouring and we did the cultural part duty with some museum-hopping (they were all free, which I like since I sometimes really don't get the art and slouch around aimlessly for hours to get my money's worth, searching for a chair to sit on that's not ancient. These ones were more entertaining, though).



Now we're back at the bar, I got a glass of red and have been playfully interrogating one of the guys in the group. He's a nice boy, younger than me and already looking into his Phd, and usually, as he claims, not very talkative. But I am somehow struck by the urge to share my every random thought with him and, in turn, ask him all sorts of inappropriate questions (not that sort, I'm not completely useless in social settings). He doesn't seem to mind too much, though; I think he has taken to the idea to open up to a stranger with purple wine stains on her lips, which are sealed, obviously. My attention shifts now, however, as the guy from the first night has shown up again and is talking to me, leaning in quite closely. He did that before, as well as watching me a bit too intently. At one point he takes my ring to show me some reflecting light, and I am a bit bemused when he slides it back onto my finger (I'm so influenced by romantic comedies, it's a serious condition). He proposes (haha) to show me and my friend a place where they actually serve brunch the next morning, and we agree to go.



Day 16

There's no brunch, and my friend decides to go to the library (everyone but me is shooting for a Phd around here, it seems), but he suggests that brownie serving place and somehow, I am on my way to meet him. Alone. Now I don't know about the cultural differences (British or college related respectively), but in my book that's a bit of a situation. Wish me enough poise to not let this turn awkward.

I think I'm doing fine - I have not brought up anything romance /heartbreak/ textationship related, neither asked inappropriate questions, so that's good so far. We're on safe territory, talking family, careers (well, his), New Year's resolutions. Location changes to a gallery and I still can't tell if he just lacks a sense of personal space or is purposefully getting closer to me. I don't really mind either way - I'm not exactly overcome with desire, but I'm nice and comfortable. We're walking around town and he's got all these anectodes and knows every special corner, showing me a lovely spot near the bridge, and I wonder if he's trying to set a mood. I'm too busy congratulating myself for being so comfortable to notice, anyways. I also forget to watch the clock and we turn up at my friend's house when it's already getting dark (I have shown an alarming sense for poor priorities when it comes to guys), where he joins us for tea. While the others are discussing their uni system, I play with my hair elastic and he absentmindedly pulls it away from me like we're holding a bow between us (as in bow and arrow). He keeps asking what we should do for my last night, but my friend and I are invited to dinner and have to keep it pretty vague. (Though me, with my bad priorities, would totally sneak away from a group thing to see a guy. Too bad I'm too polite to actually suggest that)

Dinner is just lovely, still. We're at a Chinese place and my friend's roomate has chosen all these dishes that look fabulous and I'm non-stop refilling my plate. Good thing I was so busy being comfortable I forgot to eat all day.

Eventually we end up in a common room, where I further bond with the shy guy from before (and spam him with my confusion over the other guy's intentions, to which he only says "well, do you need anything from him?". He's so much more self-actualized than me in some ways, bless his heart). Then the other guy drops by and we share some fruity cider (I wasn't aware that there was alcohol in that until I asked, and that's the good stuff), but since we're all playing a game that does not allow much talking, no scandalous whispering in dark corners happens, and the evening fades out in a somewhat anti-climaxing fashion. Meaning I am wearing a rain-soaked fur coat and my teeth are uncontrollably rattling from the cold when we hug goodbye in breathing distance to my friend.

Day 17 

On my flight back home. Very tired, very sad to be leaving this marvelous place where everyone is nice and chatty to (and maybe even hitting on) you, there's books everywhere (the libraries are so pretty I could cry) and I am completely cut loose from all responsibility while walking that narrow bridge and breathing in the cold December air.

Pictures

Let me begin by telling you a little story. My grandfather passed away when I was five - obviously, that came as a huge surprise to me, having had no concept or consideration of death at that point. All I knew was that he was sick and had to sit in the garden stool while I pranced around in the garden and climbed onto his knees one summer day, and that's when he gave me a camera. A small Canon MP, a non-digital one, of course, since I'm old and in the early 2000s, we still took real photographs. I remember playing photo shoot with my dolls (before I knew how much postal work goes into the real ones). As it goes, I misplaced it in the house somewhere, my parents got a digital one and did not buy any more film and I got a camera phone. But today I found an adorable little packet of Kodak in my Christmas candy bag, and now I relish in fantasies of artsy analog shots of me and my friends that have the same fascinating air of "Being in the sun-squinting, drink-spilling, glitter-powder moment memories" to them.


Ghosts

Currently, I'm sitting on the plane (typing into my phone in astonishingly bad spelling) to Hamburg - For the first time since February! I'm doing something university related with some of the girls and we feel like we're thirteen and on a field trip again, but I'm flying out there on my own and I'm seeing ghosts. That happens to me more frequently recently. No, not dead people or anything like that (please, I can't even watch those movies). But two rows up front across from me, there's a guy who looks a lot like my certain someone. At least from behind. I've been staring at his neck intently and missing the security demonstration, desperately trying to make out some big difference. I know it's not him - I know he is not even in the country right now, much less should he be on his way to Hamburg, and despite all of my darkness he would definitely say hi to me. Oh, this is stupid, because of course I would recognize my certain someone with total certainty. I'm just freaked out by some clean cut dark hair on the back of a slender neck. This guy has a much longer nose, anyways. Maybe I can ask him to show me his profile all through the flight, so I don't have to be so freaked out. Now I'm peering at him with a disgusted expression (not because I'm actually disgusted but because I'm highly irritated and it's too early for composure) from behind the drinks wagon like a crazy, lovesick hawk.

Oh my. See you on the ground.

Hamburg, my love

I'm back! Not in my beloved apartment (I need to check again if the guy who usually lives there is planning to move. But I think he's getting scared of me randomly texting him), but in a very bohemian place in the Schanzenviertel, which is a bit like the trendy bit of Brooklyn of Hamburg, with three of my fashion college girls. We're a perfect set of roomies, cozying up in the living room around a jar of sweets and having supermarket-dinner around the sturdy dark-wood kitchen table, sitting on the creaked floor boards. We have a Bachelor's seminar during the day (sooo many numbers this time - business planning sounded more glamorous than "spreadsheets" in my head, but that was the primarily used term allover) but spent the evenings having pasta at an Italian restaurant where they played opera (always a quality criteria), having strong red and really bad white wine in our neighborhood and finally, wandering around the Christmas market next to the Alster - I'm sure this city is beautiful in summer, but I absolutely adore it all dolled up for Christmas. Take a little look....

Even in this day and age of so-called communication, I often times encounter great misunderstandings, especially between the different sexes. It is generally assumed that women use secret girl code and are therefore impossible to be attended to since men are not genetically equipped to understand said code. However, I know way more men who seem to encrypt their true intention, and other than girls, they don't have a code pattern. They just do.

Before I get accused of bashing boys, let's bring in an example, shall we?

A guy who is obsessed with his girlfriend's birth control habits. Does she take the pill? Why won't she take the pill? Why is she getting annoyed when he's asking her if she's changed her mind about the pill? Firstly, none of this is his business. Obviously, he has a right to know if and what form of birth control she uses, so he knows what risk they're dealing with exactly (but they're all risks, aren't they?). But since it is her body and her hormonal messup, the final decision really does not include him. If he is not comfortable with the unwanted birth rate of anything other than the pill, then he may proceed not to have sex with her. So now we agreed that he does not have a real point, which is something he must know, what could be the reason for his behaviour? The only valid thing I can come up with is that he thinks she does not want to commit to taking a long-term contraceptive because she does not see them being a long-term couple. And that, lovelies, would be much easier to find out by simply asking the damn question.

Now onto the topic of coffee. I'll admit that I've asked someone out for a coffee before and imagined the situation to turn into a much more romantic one. But that was more or less understandable seeing that I already did all sorts of intimate things with that guy (like puking in hearing distance to him and wiping my snot on his shoulder. Using my grossest examples so that this does not get emotional). Okay and now that I think about it, our first date was also him asking me out if I wanted to get coffee sometime, BUT, and here I am thinking I'm right again, we ended up going for dinner and a movie, which is totally a date, and the coffee-question was just the opener for the conversation that led to the date, so technically, I'm totally right.

Just realized I didn't mention what I'm explaining to be right about.

I'm saying that, if you as a stranger ask me if I'd like to go out with you, and I say we can go for coffee "sometime", I am downgrading the situation from you asking me out on a date in the near foreseeable future to us grabbing a paper cup at our local Starbucks in the endless dust of "sometime". Because I'm not using a code phrase to let you know I like you, I'm stating facts: I only like you enough to encounter you in broad daylight, with other people being there, with you not spending more than five bucks on me (scratch that, I'll pay for myself), for a limited amount of time.

However, I fear that that might not be so clear to everyone out there.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Hi, hi, hello, let's skip the "yeah I kinda didn't post all month last month again" sermon and get right into it, shall we?

The first semester of senior year is almost over and I'm nowhere near confident about my project deadlines. I think so is everyone else in my class. We're a fun little group with great shoes and panic in our eyes, ordering too much coffee and spending the first half hour of every lesson down at the vending machine, eating our nerves. I got five seperate To Do lists and it turns out that "writing the whole pr concept" does not get any less time consuming just by putting a little dash in front of it. What a nasty surprise.

On the move to the copying machine. How very dynamic.

Some people do sports to reduce stress. I went to my beloved ballet class yesterday, with all the best of intentions. However, when the ballet baby (my teacher always brings her eight (or nine? I'm new with this) month old boy, who used to be a total delight, lying peacefully on his back, listening to the classical music; now he's still absolutely delighful, just way more mobile and sound-intense) began leaning out of his little car seat, and the others were all talking about the choreography and looking the other way, horrors began forming in my mind, but before I could alert his mom, his cute big head threw off his balance and he rolled out of the seat and onto the floor. He wasn't seriously hurt (though he sure cried like he had just been pushed out of a moving car) and his mom assured me that things like these happen all the time, but I'm deeply ashamed for not having said anything sooner. I don't even wanna know how much of an annoying helicopter I'll be if I have children one day. I'm already dancing the dying swan scene with an alarmed twitching in my eyes because I can see the baby in the mirror, grabbing the power chord of the stereo behind me. I mean, I love this class with all my heart. But I'm still a teensy bit stressed.

I'm more of a "carbs fix everything" kinda gal

Focus on the little things. I am sitting in my car after riding the train home for an eternity, parked in the parking lot, and I am devouring a cold slice of cheese pizza and washing it down with coke from a plastic cup while blasting Taylor Swift. That scenario might not sound especially desirable to you, but think about it: I got my own car with a drink holder. I got enough time to enjoy my lunch in here all by myself without rushing. I had just the three dollars for my pizza floating around on the bottom of my purse. I'm not lactose intolerant. And I get to decide what music to put on.

Plan fun things for when it's over. I booked a hotel room for September. I got no way of getting there yet, but we won't be nagging about details, are we? "Book as many trips as possible without digging too deep into your pocket, because you don't know if you're gonna get a job right after graduating" is....probably too long for a new bumper sticker.

But honestly, like I'd ever put a bumper sticker on my car.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I went on a little European adventure to visit my loveliest friend abroad, and I fell in love with Italy all over again (the first time I did was in 2016 when us two summered in the most adorable town by the sea and got us our very own gang with a quaint but nice neighbour)....

It's not always hot. In fact, the first thing I saw getting off the plane was the snowflakes falling down at crazy speed. Good thing I traveled in the fuzziest clothes I own, my black fake fur and a long wool skirt that made me look like one of the Olsen twins in their homeless-chic phase, but more on the homeless side (is that politically incorrect or a fashion term or both?).

There's always coffee. It's cheap. And it's good. I didn't even need caramel flavored syrup and chocolate infusions to get it down, like I usually would at home. Since the weather wasn't exactly the sunniest and we were more interested in catching up than standing in line for the duomo (it's very pretty from the outside, too) anyways, we made stops for coffee at least twice a day, which could last a couple hours. However, I feel like that's one of the best ways to get familiar with the country; watching people and the city going by and listening to other guests' conversations (even though my Italian is basically at level zero).

Sightseeing means strolling around high fashion stores all day long. The buildings are beautifully built and the clothes are gracefully presented and everyone crossing your way is carrying a well-known purse. Exactly my kind of vacation. Even the corner newsstand hands you a black shopping bag that could easily mean you've been shopping something way more expensive than the latest Vogue. Your crepe literally comes on a golden plate. I wonder what the trashbags look like.


The Lago di Como is a happy place where nothing bad can find you. We followed the weather forecast and took the train (the wrong one, forcing us to freeze on the platform in some village and put on a harmonizing performance of our childhood jams in order to keep warm, probably disturbing everyone else for life), and suddenly, it was 60 degrees instead of 30 and we were wearing sunglasses while drinking our coffee on a sunny piazza. I bought a red bag and red heels (in a store that was probably the Italian equivalent of Target, but still, it's Italian after all) and my loveliest friend got some gorgeous boots and equipped with our new belongings, we climbed up into the mountains (to board a train up to a mansion. Never found the train, almost suffered a heatstroke from unplanned exercise. But the view was awesome). We got ice cream that tasted like the strawberrys were handpicked that same day (a garbage collector came up to me when I was done and said something I obviously didn't understand; I thought he was mad at me for setting my empty cup down and tried to form a sentence swearing that I'd throw it away, but in the end he just took it from me and we left). And we walked all around the lake and watched the sun set over it and the swans swimming and stumbled upon romantic corners and scenic balconies every five steps.


Trains fail you like they do anywhere else, but in Italian. I was already calculating my ride to the airport closely, and when I rushed up to the platform, people were just shaking their heads at me when I asked "Airport?" with wide fear-struck eyes. Cancellato, said the sign, and no official was around to be found and none of the announcements were in English, so I kind of gave in and made my peace with missing my flight and staying another night (it's not the worst to be held up in Milan, is it?). Made it though, with a full ten minutes to spare (and feeling absolutely disgusting in my not-made-for-running-outfit).

I hope your March started off full of dolce della vita. Let's see how the rest of it goes....

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

Someone took a picture

Well, you know my motto is "If I'm still eating Christmas chocolates, it's not over". Consequently, we'll be good until Easter.

You've seen my Christmas Eve plenty of times, so let me just put it in a nutshell with this very poised picture I took after downing my mulled wine and smudging my Rouge Dior with dinner:



'Twas all very lovely, as a Christmas Eve should be and as I hope yours was, as well. On Christmas Day I went on my annual twenty minutes of biking at the gym (all done with exercise for another year now), took a little trip to the spa (the best part of that is rushing back to your room in your sweats with greasy hair from the facial and collapsing onto your bed, because lying on your back for half an hour while someone is caressing your face is exhausting, apparently) and went bowling and pool-playing with my family. I still suck at bowling, but I kinda wanna go try my luck at a pool table dive bar now.

Now I'm back in my childhood room for another week, and it is stuffed with suitcases and laundry baskets and gifts stacked on the floor. What frightens me is that I haven't even brought, like, big stuff back from the apartment yet. I didn't buy that much, did I? Anyways, let's deal with that when we can't ignore it any longer, just as it is my custom.

I'll allow myself to slouch for another day, and then I'll ring in the New Year with my loveliest friend, and then I'll be back and running (metaphorically, obviously. I think I can safely say that I won't ever ever ever develope a taste for running in the literal sense)!

See you so soon.

Love,

Rosy Smith

Gosh, I have been so, so bad with my Blogmas this year. But alas, I can't help it now. I mean, it's probably a good sign that I have been so busy that I simply didn't manage to write something before I went to bed. Christmas came fast this year, didn't it? Especially since we've had lots to do at the office, even though it was not quite the important strike in journalism that you might expect (or does no one expect that from a women's magazine anyway?)....

Everything Must Go

It's done, it's over, the rooms are a brilliant mess but everything worth taking has been snatched up by somebody (I ran into the guy who always brings in the big silver boxes looking at jewelry for his wife yesterday) and all the PR Christmas gifts in forms of liquids have been drank down. Us interns bid our goodbyes to the editors, and it's funny how they all seemed most approachable in our last days of working together. The hierarchy probably faded once the daily routine broke down to "Let's delete all this Valentine's crap, we're not printing anything in March anyways".

    
I Need More Bookshelves

I arrived home this afternoon (hence the extremness of the inconsistency) with my belongings in literal boxes (and a suitcase. No, two. And a backpack, a tote bag, a clutch and a beauty case. And that other bag). Somehow, there seems to be so much more to put away now that I am sitting in my childhood room, which aleady has all these other thing in it that I couldn't take with me to Hamburg because there was no space. In an apartment, mind you. But I am going to worry about this later, because tomorrow, it's Christmas Eve! That means we'll be driving to our traditional holiday hideaway - and I didn't need to bring much for that.

See you there.

Love,

Rosy Smith

I think I remember, very faintly, our teacher back at college giving some kind of lecture about accepting gifts as a journalist. However, I can't seem to recall the conclusion that she drew - was it never or always to take whatever you were offered? Too bad I don't remember, but the obliviousness sure comes in handy at the office at the moment.

See, the magazine I've been interning at for the past four months is relocating, and I'm changing positions for the remaining two months of my time here in Hamburg. The point is, the office is being completely cleaned out and it's been like an ongoing sample sale in there for days now.

First, there were beauty products. The conference table was bending under the weight of carefully sorted jars and bottles and containers. Never in my life have I seen such a wide range of self-tanner. I mean, there was so much other stuff as well, but the self-tanner left a random impression on me. The air hung heavy with a concentrated silence as everyone slowly moved around the table, scanning the supply and constantly ready to reach out for their pick at any given moment, like lion mothers protecting their children. I heard a rumour that all the good stuff was pocketed by the beauty editors themselves, but we won't judge. I managed to get a beautiful Dior lip colour that matched my birthday dress - among about a dozen other stains and sticks. I guess I won't have to go on any lip product shopping sprees anytime soon. Oh and I have three different peelings from a range of brands now; eat that, airport clerk.

Then, there were nicknacks. The rule is as follows: Everything moveable you find and don't like for yourself is put into the kitchen, and from then on it's fair game. I feel a bit like a thief everytime I go in there to slyly check the new arrivals, trying not too look to interested while casually lifting things and putting them back down as if weighing them. Picking them up again and leaving, as if to say "Oh that's still in my hand? Well, might as well take it". I scored a cute little dancing bag this way (crossbody, but chic enough not to be unflattering to your party dress, and small enough not to give you a hematoma while dancing). Missed out on a bright pink laptop case that was so girly it was almost cool again though. But I really can't complain.

Some clothes, too. Not the new ones, of course, but there was a bunch of stuff left in the sample closet that we couldn't figure out where to send and as us interns are the ones doing all the sending, it was our prerogative to pick whatever we deemed nice enough to keep. Mostly yoga wear and one pretty shift dress, but the prospect of getting something for free made me consider bagging a pair of grey Italian trousers four sizes too big for me ("I could alter them" - as if I ever successfully altered something other than taking in the waistband of a cotton skirt). I'm weak that way.

And finally, the books. Oh, the books. When I found out by coincidence that there was a whole table of books that could just be taken away, I thought I was dreaming. But now, everything must go, and I found out that if no one takes them, they'll be - oh horror - put away, which seems to be a euphemism for "cruelly trashed in one of these big silver containers disappearing everyday", so I have made it my mission to a) show everyone the table and have them look around and b) carry as many faintly interesting sounding volumes as I can without knocking someone over out of there everyday.

I still have to constantly remind myself that I am not robbing a bookstore but that it is indeed completely legal for me to just bring home whatever I fancy, but that's the beauty of it, too.

Love,

Rosy Smith

In case you were expecting a deep talk about life and loss and other dwell-ups, well that's too bad, 'cause I'm just gonna vent a bit for my own satisfaction.

On Thursday, the "Don't-Ask-Day", something very important to me simply fell out of my lap when I got up to change trains because the one I was sitting in didn't leave. I spent hours riding all over town searching for the particular wagon that I dropped it in, running up platforms in heels, sweating in my polyester sweater that kept riding up my thighs, asking people for directions with a haunted look in my eyes and wild hair all over the place. Then I went to work red-eyed and kept refreshing the page and hoping some sort of nice person who doesn't usually steal things they find on the floor uses one of the possibilities to return found items, and that's what I'm doing still. Also, I solemny swear I'm never gonna ignore something that looks meaningful on the street, or the train floor, no matter how dirty that might be. Cross your fingers for me that I get my thing back. Thanks.

On Saturday, I slept in, went to Ballet class, soaked up the calm there, went shopping for food, walked to the bus stop and boom, almost had a heart attack when I couldn't feel my keys in my pocket. Haha, I thought, I'm so jumpy, of course I have my keys.

Okay, I don't have my keys. Cue the controlled panic.

So I drove to my building, I scooched down in front of the doorstep to search the floor, an old lady walking by thought I was a teenage runaway stealing her parent's cash, and I didn't find my keys. I called the studio, and the guy who was working the counter that morning (who's kind of cute. No magic moment, but it's always nicer to talk to cute guys than to, well, non-cute ones. Gosh, I'm on top of my shallow game right here) asked me to leave a call-back number, so I said "you got something to write" but in German, it seems that it could be mistaken as me asking for his number, which I certainly didn't intend, and he politely declined but promised to call if he found something. Then I drove there myself, to check all three lockers that could be, maybe, possibly have been mine. Nothing. I bid the counter guy goodbye with a bitterness the poor boy didn't deserve and went to the supermarket (all the while carrying my frozen lunch with me in my handbag, I should add), harassing all four check-out ladies only to leave, defeated almost to the point of calling my mom in hysterics. But alas, I chose to wait until every last chance of me not having to sleep on the street (sound familiar?) was thoroughly examined, so I went back to my place, ringing every doorbell, and that is where two middle-aged men approached me. "They don't let you in?", they asked, lighting up a smoke. "Oh, do you live here?" "We're visitors. You too?" "Oh, no I live here. But I can't get in. Will you let me in?" I was babbling on in a very questionable, teenage runaway fahsion, when the door threw open and another man, the host of the smokers, stood there in a dressing gown with a cigar in his mouth, and I snuck right into the staircase before anyone could stop me. The dressing gown man even introduced himself, but I forgot his name, so he shall be referred to as the Dressing Gown Man. They were all very nice and full of sympathy when I told them my story while I climbed up the stairs to my door. And there, thank goodness gracious, was a post-it saying that the neighbours across the hall had my keys with them and would be back shortly. I think I praised the Lord loudly upon this. Then I scribbled a thank you note and stuck it onto their door, and then I went to the bus stop and had a little cry of relief and strained nerves. Then I thought of the thing I lost Thursday and cried some more. I have given up on all inhibitions regarding public display of distress (PDD- is that a thing?), I guess we have established that by now.

And finally, today, I got all dressed for bellydance class (I'm on a roll- fourth day of dancing in a row. Sorry, I just had to get that out there to be remembered forever) and packed my purse, when I suddenly didn't see my membership card anywhere. By now I couldn't muster up any careful thoughs on where it might be, I just turned the bag upside down and oh my, I realize that the scatter of trash and a fun mix of various belongings are still lying in front of my door and I have to clean it up. Anyways, I didn't find it, and they gave me a new card, and I wondered if there is some sort of weird planet alignment at the moment because these coincidents are weirding me out by now. Then I went home and found my original card had slipped into my business card case. Yes, I do have a business card, I just never give it to people. I thought everyone did it this way.

I'm gonna hold on to all of my things very tightly this week. And then I'm off home for Christmas, to a place where other people have keys to my place and I don't have to take the train anywhere. 

Love,

Rosy Smith

I had a ridiculously awful morning which I will retell another time because I'll get too worked up reliving it now. I don't like getting worked up before going to sleep, although it is the most convenient time to have a little cry because you don't have to rekindle your looks or anything afterwards. And you don't have to sneak under your desk to search for a tissue and stay there for five suspicious minutes because you can't find one and have to seriously consider using your spare pair of gloves as a replacement (and then decide against it, I might add). But it's no fun.

And then we went to the Contemporary class and there was a lot of floor work involved. I think I have burnt both my elbows rolling around from right to left. And there will be blue marks, I can just feel it. At one point, four of my toes cramped at once. I didn't know they did that. And there was one figure wher you have to put your feet behind your head while lying on your shoulders and then turn your entire torso, and I just couldn't figure out how that's possible without breaking your neck, so I didn't try very hard but stayed in the starfish position (flat on my back, arms and legs out. Perfect) during the sequence. All in all, it was fun. A bit bumpy, but fun.

I'm going to a Contemporary dance class tomorrow and I've spent about half an hour wondering which top to wear. See, I have made this cropped t-shirt for myself, but I wore that to Zumba class last night, and I have a polka dot cami, but it doesn't go too well with my pantskirt, so I have finally settled on a plain black halter top which I still have to find in the mess that is the bottom of my closet.

So there's reason to congratulate us interns - we finally (mostly) cleaned out the whole fall winter section of the prop stash! It took a lot of dust on my tights and scratches on the back of my hand (from the thingie that makes the tape go on the cardboard. Does that have a name?) and yesterday I hit myself onto the collarbone and you can still see the blemish (that thingie is a safety hazard all right), but we did it. We overcame the curse. Now press your thumbs they don't put us onto the jewellry return task because that is pure harrassment. All that dingly tiny golden stuff without tags, appearing from formerly empty shoe boxes, but only at the fifth shake. It is tiring me to think about it.

I have only seven working days left until Christmas break, and afterwards I'm starting a different position at a different magazine - this came somehow unexpected. We'll see what we make of it. Well, what I make of it. You'll hear about it, still.

Love,

Rosy Smith