I will never tire of Roz Chast, a cartoonist for the New Yorker and author of Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, which I adored. Here's a video of her in her home in Connecticut; it includes various birds, off-season Christmas lights, a book called New Essentials of Upholstery, a giant painting of a zebra chair, a can of All Day Breakfast, and Ukrainian Easter eggs, as seen on one of her many covers. She is a national treasure: if you're similarly obsessed, you can also listen to her talk to podcast-haver and star of my sex dreams Alec Baldwin on an episode of Here's the Thing.
The first trailer for the Amy Winehouse documentary was released today. It's just a snippet, but parts of it—"I don't think I'm gonna be at all famous. I don't think I could handle it. I would probably go mad." especially—are already rattling in my brain.
I routinely happen upon men who are perplexed when I eventually declare that I want to know where we stand. Indecision is not a noble virtue. If a man is in “Not really feeling this becoming more than what it is,” territory, I should be made aware in no uncertain terms. If a man is in “I am waiting for someone else to be my girlfriend but I’ll keep you around till I find her” territory, I ought to know that too. My feelings, and the feelings of many people I know, are more hurt by the prolonged waiting for a concrete answer while we sit quietly with our feigned Chill. It is as if I’ve broken some unwritten law when I ask what they are looking for and am dissatisfied with the answer “I don’t really like to put labels on things.” But putting labels on things are how people find the exit during a fire and make sure they’re adding vanilla extract to the cake instead of arsenic.
Alana Massey on the prevalence of chill— a lack of care so pervasive that it renders all emotions both obsolete and passé— is something I wish I'd read when I was 14, or 17, or 20, or even, occasionally, now, times when I've stuffed my feelings deep down in order to make myself more palatable. Recently, my boyfriend told me I have zero chill; I responded in the only way I know how. I've come so far!
Partying felt less loaded than sex or friendship or family and it surprised me how people never seemed to mind as you went from knowing them to adoring them and then unknowing them, all within a six-to-eight-hour span. With ecstasy there is no serotonergic choice but for everyone to love everyone and then stop. It silenced social math. It’s only when those dials in my head go dark that I can have a good time.
I adored Hairpin pal Mary H. K. Choi's thrilling, honest, funny portrayal of her relationship with ecstasy on Matter. I don't do drugs, what no of course not, but if I DID do drugs I'd probably do something like cry about the series finale of 30 Rock two years after it ended, eat half of a lasagna, then vacillate between delight and irritability about my altered state, yelling, "I HATE THIS. I HAVE STUFF TO DO!!!" I promise I am very fun at parties. READ MORE
Nearly one week ago, the only member of One Direction worth caring about abruptly left the "band"—in order to be a band you have to play instruments but WHATEVER, I'll let them have this one—and America nearly fell apart. Buzzfeed hosted a vigil. Teens freaked out. Even Mitt Romney weighed in (he is not looking well). READ MORE