Sunday, June 27, 2010

Following the Rant

I'll make this brief. But following my recent meltdown a few interesting developments have surfaced. And I figured, why stop there? Let's explore this self-loathing. Let's see where it takes us.

Sooo... The writer who fawned over the 24-year-old Parisian
ingénue in Bazaar? The one who is flown around the world to interview society's elite? The one whose career I wish I had? Yeah, that guy. He just put this out into the world: "My #polo dates are having a disagreement: Tom Guinness says Nacho is his real name, and @ByrdieBell thinks its short for something. Anyone?"

If I have to explain why I'm upset, then you don't deserve to know. However, I'm thrilled the mastheads of Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, V and Interview (FOR FUCK'S SAKE!) call him their own. He can make The New York Times best-sellers list, and I can barely afford to feed my dog? Right.


The ex, the love, the one?

Thanks to the miracles of the internet and the demise of our ability to escape people (I swear to God, Facebook, one day I will ruin you), I found out on Friday he's on a serene tropical vacation. With the girl he was fucking on the side.

The one he took to the New Year's Eve party this year -- before texting me at 10 am the next morning to tell me how much he loves me. The one I thought could only be a meaningless fling, indiscretion, mistake. The reason I cut him out of my life, hoping he would realize how utterly beneath him she was.

Nope, she's the one who after only six months gets to travel halfway across the Pacific with him. Not the one who nurtured and edified him for three years. Not the one who was kept in the dark on a string and pulled out whenever his ego needed stroking. No, no, no. The one who I'm 99 percent sure is tittering off which sunless tanning cream is her, like, omg, fave. She's the one he chose.

**End note: Thank you to the few who have encouraged my need to vent and share. I don't feel less of an asshole, but I do feel relieved.**

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Impromptu Rant

Okay, so we conceived this blog to be a centralized vent-station of all things bitchy. And I just realized we never actually do just that. (Well, except for that whole "the skanks our exes date after us" one that got the better of our conscience...) We claim to be entirely unapologetic, yet we're too afraid to speak our minds, to be cathartic, to live through this -- ahem -- anonymous platform.

So what the hell's our problem? Well, it just dawned on me (W) how much I obsess over these posts, and therefore never in fact complete any. I'm bat-shit terrified that they won't be any good, that they won't have perfect sentence structure or the exact comedic effect that I think will somehow magically land me a staff position at SNL... cause that's totally plausible, right?

Fuck. It takes me far longer to write/edit/rewrite/edit (some more) than this dumbass thing is even worth
, and it's a sad, sad disgrace for something people find the inspiration to do daily. It's a blog -- isn't that the point? That it's supposed to be fast and free? I don't know if I'm necessarily built for that.

But today? Today, I am in a god-awful-ass shitty mood. And I want to fucking wallow in it.

So if this post isn't beautifully crafted, fine. And if no one reads it, piff. And even if people do actually read it and are like, "What in god's name is this? She's a melodramatic, ungrateful princess," whatever. If you don't like it, don't read it.
I'm throwing my shit to the wind and free writing, mother fuckers. Deal with it, potential book editors and make-believe people who actually care enough to criticize. You've been warned.

LifeSucks Realization: Part 1
I am a 26-year-old assistant.

Nope, I didn't get a master's degree or take a couple years to work for the Peace Corps (which was a close second to moving to New York... a decision I still regret). I have four years experience in my field. Good experience. Credentials and contacts that should have me far higher than I am. But instead, I'm back to a position I was toasted I would never have to do again. My former INTERNS have better titles than me. Several of them. At top-tier mags. Time, Conde, Hearst, you name it. I've imparted my wisdom and let them surpass me in kicking ass in the industry.

Yes, I adore my current office environment. I have the most loving, amazing boss you could ask for (I'm not blowing smoke -- she's the best), but as much as I respect her, I'm still making her coffee, rescheduling her doctor's appointments, answering her phone and faxing her children's summer camp forms. Sure, I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into. But the goddamn recession and a couple of nasty cunts forced me from my last post, hence the drop in title (and salary) to simply get back in the game. And up until a few weeks ago I was relatively okay with it.

Then something cracked. Subconsciously I stopped eating. I started sleeping through my weekends and staring into the subway abyss during my commute. I hit a wall, head on. But I have absolutely nothing to complain about -- I work for a woman people pay to meet, a product grown women positive squeal over, a job "a million girls would kill for." But I can't help being unhappy. It eats me alive to know I'm not as far ahead as I'd like, of not being as successful as I should. And it somehow decided to manifest itself to me this week. Just cause.

So naturally it's all I can think about now. And it's building and seething and making me a crazy person. I thought I'd slit my wrists today when I saw an article in Bazaar praising a 24-year-old Parisian for being so chic, so successful, so trendsetting. Oh, she's from a long line of jewelry tycoons? And she has a closet full of her mother's vintage YSL and Celine? Right. While I (also today) dropped ketchup on a dress my mother sent me from Wal-Mart. No wonder I'm fabulously unemployeable in the fashion industry.

LIfeSucks Realization: Part 2

I just hit the two-week "I don't think he's actually going to call" mark.

Surprise! My love life is a train wreck! You totally didn't see that coming, I know. She's miserable in her job, no one loves her, wah wah wah. Again, I warned you -- this is for me, not you. And if you've never writhed in self-pity, you're either a robot or a liar.

So yeah, dicks. The rebound-from-the-rebound guy (who I only saw a few times but I thought I genuinely hit it off with) gave the classic "I'll call you" goodbye after our last date. Annnnnd cue crickets.

Now, let's get something straight here. I am not the girl to wait by the phone. Ever. But when these scathingly smooth douchebags know how to work a bitch, I can't help it. There's a certain breed of them that knows exactly how to hook me. I end up excusing their superficial flaws because I am "inexplicably" drawn to their personality. They build me up, get the attention they need and drop me without a word otherwise. One after the other after the other. This has happened in more instances than I would like to admit, yet it astounds me every fucking time. How do I not see this coming? Why do I continue to allow this to happen? I am now certain it is my fault in some way.

But in the end I don't actually care that they're not around anymore. Because I never really cared about them to begin with. What I care about is someone breaking me down again. About someone having the upper hand on my emotions again, always. About further emptying the heart that never fully recovered.

I'm in a constant state of trying to bury the ex, the love, the one. I am desperate to get him out of my head. But try as I might, reality sets in, or perhaps delusion, the absurdity -- that all I really ache for is to meet him beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, curl up to Annie Hall (like that perfect New Year's Eve of 2007) and hear him say...

And now I'm sobbing uncontrollably. And frightening my dog. And it's on the internet.

Maybe this whole free writing thing wasn't the best idea...