Our offices moved across the street last week, so we had to pack up our desks. Now for NORMAL people, it might take an hour or two to pack up their crap. They get their shit together and then they head to the nearest bar and catch the silver bullet or what have you. I think my co-worker packed her desk in like three minutes. Opened a box, threw everything in, taped it up. WHO’S BUYING ME A DRINK?

Then there’s me. I’m not going to say I am NOT normal, but let’s just say I am not “typical”. How about that? That sounds better than “abnormal,” right? The word “abnormal” always sounds so medical to me. Like oh hey, we found an abnormal growth. We think it might be a vestigial tail, etc.

Anyway, packing took me SEVERAL hours and I had to spread it over two days because it was so taxing. And of course every single co-worker stopped by my desk and had to comment on the amount of stuff I had. LIKE YES I KNOW DUDE, I’M PACKING IT UP AND I SEE THAT YES, I HAVE A LOT OF SHIT and also, HEY, DON’T YOU HAVE TO BE AT A MEETING OR SOMETHING? K THANKS.

I should note that I have a desk, and it’s small. I don’t have my own office or a cubicle. It is just a desk with a small three-drawer filing cabinet thing underneath. I’ve been there for about 5 years. And in that 5 years, I have managed to collect an amazing amount of garbage. Here is what I found:

This is a plate. My co-worker bought it for me on her trip to Israel. In 2005. Yes, 2005. I literally found it in my files. Just filed away, like a report or an expense sheet, in a hanging file folder. It is a regular dinner sized plate. Hand painted ceramic. It has a crack in it because plates do not like being filed away.

This is an alarm clock. It winds up. This means you have to wind it up every day. It was a gift from someone. It’s old. I got it and I squealed THIS IS SO CUTE! Then I wound it up and it was just the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. It made me anxious because it was like I needed to defuse a bomb RIGHT NOW before the whole building blew up. Kind of like that scene in the Hurt Locker. Where you are like OH MY FUCKING GOD HURRY UP YOU DICK WHAT IS THE HOLD UP? I originally had it at home, but it was so fucking loud I brought it into the office thinking it’d be better there, and you know what? It wasn’t. My coworker threatened to throw it out the window to “see time fly.” HA HA HA HA. (She really did threaten to break it though.)

These are golf balls. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, oh hey, does Annie golf? The answer is NO. I do NOT golf. These ballz happen to say COSMO on the side. As in Cosmo magazine. As in, “Ten Ways to Sleep With Your Boss” Cosmo or “Be Bikini Ready” Cosmo or “Taylor Swift Talks About Music, Love, and Waxing Her Legs” Cosmo. My co-worker’s friend works for Cosmo and sends her a big box of shit every so often. Then I sometimes get little tidbits of awesome shit. Like these golf balls. What I did is chose two random people and mailed them the balls with a sticky note that says “As discussed here are the balls. Enjoy!” That’s it. No return address, no note, and unsigned. These are people I do NOT know. One was Nat’s boss and one was a co-worker’s father. Pretty funny right? Yes I can tell you are laughing.

No desk is complete without a reporter’s notebook with Anderson Cooper on the cover. This was from Aura and I still use it. I feel very very pro when I bust it out. LIKE LOOK AT ME I’M A HARD-HITTING JOURNALIST ALSO I AM A LOOKER ALSO I’M A VANDERBILT AND I’M LOADED AND I GUESS YEAH, I’M GAY BUT EVZ NOT A BIG DEAL I LIKE TO PICK UP HOT LATIN MEN IN AIRPORTS (true story, that is apparently something Andy Cooper did. I’m not judging, just merely making an observation).

Origami Christmas. It is the day Jesus made an origami crane and was all, yo check it out, I didn’t use glue or scissors to make this shit and then everyone was all, oooo ahhhhh it must be some kind of Christmas miracle!

A list of words my co-worker has a hard time saying or says it “weird.” It is actually work-related but I also like to have it around because it makes me laugh at her expense. I can be a real dick, but at least I say “poem” right. HAR HAR (sorry K, I love you. Let’s go to the muZAYum.)

Two kinds of hand sanitizer. I am a very thorough person.

Shot glass, that a co-worker got me from St. Lucia. I have never used it. But I keep it at the office because WHAT IF YOU WANT TO DO A SHOT AT THE OFFICE? THEN I WILL NEED A SHOT GLASS.

One pair of duck feet. I do not know where the rest of the duck is, but the feet are here with me. So if you guys see a feet-less duck, then you know who to call.

An agate. I can tell you’re jealous.

A drawing by Mr. Pony. It says “Why you lie to me Annie?” I ask myself that question every day. Aww. There is something about a sad bear that makes me laugh. Like you’re a fucking bear, you get to sleep half the year. Why are you so fucking sad? Like, I know why I’m sad. Because I’m not a goddamn bear. You’re a BEAR. Fucking man up, dick.

Typewriter ribbon, black. I went to this office supplies store on our street and asked if they had ribbon and they all made fun of me. They were like MAYBE YOU CAN PICK UP ONE AT THE STORE THAT SELLS PAGERS. No joke. I bought it online. It of course does not fit any of my typewriters.

Ukelele tab sheet. I know you have one too, so I guess this isn’t that weird.

I have more stuff, which I will “share” another day. Stay tuned. There is just so so so much more for you to see.

I went to Fire Island.

This is what it looks like during the day:

This is what it looks like at night:

This is the “most photographed dead tree on Fire Island.”

This is a (different) tree wearing shoes:

This is a gate with a hole in it so the dog can poke her head out. It’s a doghole. Which is what I call your mom, OH WHAT?

This is graffiti with a confusing message. Keep it classy, Fire Island.

Hey friends!

Check out White Zinfandel, which came out this week. I have a piece in there. Looks hot right? Right?

The concept of the journal is this: take a menu (in this case, it’s Food, a restaurant by Gordon Matta-Clark in 1971), assign dishes to a bunch of people, and see what they come up with. Then, have a fancy ass dinner somewhere fancy ass with a fancy ass chef and fancy ass people. Let me tell you, my ass is fucking fancy as shit. The item assigned to me was corn and flour tortillas. Yes, this was apparently on the menu. Just corn and flour tortillas. My friends Marco and Lizzie got “velvet chicken.” The fancy ass chef was Jonathan Ory from Momofuku Ko. He did not make velvet chicken. Or tortillas, in case you were wondering.

White Zinfandel is available at really really really hip and styley and trendo places, which, surprisingly are not in Brooklyn, but in Manhattan: New Museum, Creatures of Comfort, Project No. 8. Probably places online too, I’ll update it here when I figure that out! Woo hoot!

Oh hai, it got a little holla from Interview magazine.

Everyone give yourselves a hug. We survived the Rapture.

Or did we?

On Saturday I prepared for the end of the world by going bowling. I trust that you guys went bowling too. It is what people do when they are preparing for the end of the world.

Fact: There is only one thing my doctor has ever told me to NOT to do. And that is bowling.

At the time I said, oh yeah, not a fucking problem. I mean how often does a person bowl? Well, it turns out, more often then expected. Bowling is all “hip” and “with it” and “trendo” now in Williamsburg, which is where all the “hip” and “with it” and “trendo” people are. I swear, I walked out of the train and I saw, like, a dozen handlebar mustaches. All oiled and groomed and everything. This mustache thing is totally out of control. Everyone’s appearance was so contrived. I actually felt UNDERDRESSED in the deli. Here I am, getting a Pellegrino to quench my thirst and be classy at the sametime, and I felt like oh man, I am totally NOT wearing the RIGHT OUTFIT to PAY FOR MY PURCHASE. At the deli. Where coffee is 99¢ and the bananas have healthy colonies of Drosophila.

True story: JoMo smokes really really really really really really lame cigarettes. They are American Spirits…ORGANIC. Oh yeah. ORGANIC cigarettes. I know, it makes no sense. Like, no sense at all. He says he does it to “support organic farming”. Which is retarded because all that shit comes from some corporate farm. You are not supporting Ma and Pa “Tobacco” Jenkins when you are buying ORGANIC cigarettes, but I digress. He goes to a deli in “hip” and “with it” and “trendo” Williamsburg and asks for his particular retarded brand of cigarettes: “Do you have American Spirit Organics?” and the deli guy goes, “Wuhhhhh?” And JoMo repeats it and then the dude behind him starts LAUGHING. I mean really just like LAUGHING in the WTF style. Organic cigarettes, am I right?

This particular dude had a handlebar mustache, skinny jeans, and….suspenders. (And also a wife beater). So JoMo, just got laughed at by a “man” wearing what was basically women’s jeans, with suspenders that were not functional because his jeans were so skinny and tight, and a handlebar mustache. I have to say, this was a very, very, very special moment for me. One of those Kodak things. So then I tell JoMo, hey, a guy with a handlebar mustache wearing my pants just laughed at your choice of stupid cigarettes and he looked so sad, like I had just punched him in the nuts. Also, cigarettes, $13 in NYC. There’s just like so many layers of comedy here. I can’t even control myself. Sometimes I really love living on Earth. I don’t think I can ever leave. Kind of like my really shitty apartment.

So, back to bowling. We all went to Brooklyn Bowl to celebrate the birth and life of Stephanie. She is the other half of “Choi Division” which is our fictional band. Due to tendonitis and all kinds of stupid injuries on my wrists (yes go ahead and make your handjob jokes here), I have to “modify” my bowling “technique”. Which is kinnddd of less about rolling and more about tossing the ball down the lane, whilst putting an insane amount of spin on it (or no spin at all). I rolled a few strikes with this insane “technique,” but not enough to actually win or break 100 or even break, like, 50. They were playing Ghostbusters too, so that was VERY distracting. I fucking love that fucking movie, you guys. I love the shit out of it. Also, I heard their fire station (which is an active station and a few blocks down from me) is closing. If you all can lend me a few MILLZ I will buy the shit out of that station and, also, leave the fire pole because that shit is hawt. You guys can stay there whenever you want.

So anyway, the point is, the bowling alley is pretty cool and new and trendo blah blah, but I guess due to the Rapture, their basement/bathrooms flooded. So they had port-a-potties parked outside. And the bouncer assured me, “They are really nice port-a-potties, the kind you find on movie sets.” Let me tell you something. This did not make me feel better. Oh yeah, Meryl Streep uses this bathroom! She’s a classy lady! And don’t forget so did Oscar (TM) winner Natalie Portman! She also uses this style of mobile john! i mean really come on. who are you kidding, it is a port-a-potty. People don’t install that shit into their homes for a reason.

Am I here? I can’t tell. Maybe I’m dead? Hmm. Hard to say? I’m like 63% sure I’m not here. Maybe I’m not here? Maybe we are all dead, and this is all just a dream. A dream where I live in a shitty apartment. I fully admit it’s not the best dream. I could be having a way better dream, like one where I’m eating some peach cobbler on a mountain of money. The good kind of money, not the bad kind. That’d be a good dream, especially since peaches aren’t in season. Or are they?

I hope you guys survived the Rapture. Or maybe you didn’t?

My friend and general badass ladypants Mary Phillips-Sandy had asked me to do a review of Bridesmaids with her for a site. Posting it to the site didn’t work out, but I figured, shit, we watched the movie and did the work (which is to say, we talked about it), we should post it somewhere. So I will post it here.

It contains spoilers. If you like spoilers, then you will like this review, because it has spoilers, as I mentioned previously. If you don’t like spoilers, then I guess you shouldn’t read this and instead, get back to work already.

Annie: It was a big, fat meh, to me. Maybe my expectations were too high. I tend to have high standards. I’m Asian.

Mary: My expectations were low, based on the trailers. And the poster outside the theater that said “Chick flicks don’t have to suck.” How do we feel about the term “chick flick,” by the way?

Annie: I hate it. I hate it almost as much as I hate “chick lit.”

Mary: I hate it too. Yes. If only those words didn’t rhyme. We would not have to deal with this.

Annie: WHY NOT JUST FLICKS EVERYONE CAN ENJOY? i.e. Flicks that do not suck a big fat hairy choad and/or vagina depending on your preference.

Mary: Well, I’ll start by pointing out a few things I did like.

Annie: Okay.

Mary: I have always admired Kristen Wiig, so I was happy to see her in a starring role. I also found myself liking Maya Rudolph more than I ever did when she was on SNL. Their scenes together had great rapport: with a few exceptions that I will mention, their friendship felt authentic and real.

Annie: I like Kristen Wiig but I always thought she was a bit one note. She kind of always plays the same character, just at different levels of intensity. But I did think she was great in this. Her character was solid. And I thought Maya Rudolph was good too, though her character wasn’t as full.

Mary: I also appreciated the fact that Lillian’s fiancé was a non-entity, so this was not about a man coming between two ladyfriends. If it weren’t for that awful Helen, I suspect Annie and Lillian would’ve gotten through that wedding hoopla just fine.

Annie: All the dudes were basically non-entities, even the love interest.

Mary: Yep. So it really was about friendship among ladies in their 30s–which is groundbreaking in its way. It’s pathetic that I have to say that. One thing, though, about Annie and Lillian. I did not believe Lillian’s willingness to go along with the expensive Vegas trip when she knew Annie could not afford it. Wouldn’t she at least offer to help pay for her ticket? I would!

Annie: Oh, I know. There’s a lot of unrealistic shit though. Like Annie has that insane blow out at the shower, and then later she apologizes quickly on Lillian’s wedding day. I was like, COME ON. There’s extended scenes of Annie trying to ‘win back’ the cop, but there’s maybe one scene where Annie’s trying to win back her best friend.

Mary: There were moments where I felt very aware of the contrivances, which is part and parcel of any rom-com.

Annie: Yeah, they were just trying to tie up loose ends quickly.

Mary: And there’s no reason to expect anything more from this particular rom-com, just because there are ways in which it is doing something new.

Annie: Right, but what happens there is that it makes the tired stuff stand out a lot. Like the whole food poisoning thing.

Mary: YES okay, that.

Annie: Poop jokes are the lowest common denominator in comedy. “Oh! Everyone loves a poop joke! Tee hee!”

Mary: Everyone’s talking about that scene. Frankly, it was not that gross, I thought.

Annie: It wasn’t gross, it was just stupid and went on too long. LIKE OK I GET IT. OH LOOK WOMAN IS SHITTING IN SINK HAR HAR. (Spoiler alert.)

Mary: I’m sure it was fun for a bunch of improv actors to do, but there was an element of laziness about the idea.

Annie: I’m sure a lot of people love that scene. It just was kind of a low joke to get laughs. Super cheap, and devoid of actual clever wit that some of the other scenes have.

Mary: Yes. I read somewhere that Wiig and her writing partner, Annie Mumolo, originally wrote a fantasy scene where she tries on a dress and imagines her fantasy life in it, getting swept off her feet, and Apatow scotched it.

Annie: Because it was too ‘girly’? So he bro’d it up with a diarrhea scene?

Mary: No, the concern was doing a fantasy–they wanted to stay in the moment of the plot, which makes sense. And having a big comic set piece felt right, at that stage of the story.

Annie: Sure. I think it was probably a good move because one of the best things about the movie is that it’s not about Annie whining about being single. You don’t get the feeling that she WANTS to be married.

Mary: Good point. I loved the scenes with her and Jon Hamm, the details, like the way she snuck out of bed to put on makeup in the morning.

Annie: Everything tastes better with Hamm.

Mary: He excels at sleaziness. Something about his forehead, I think.

Annie: His o-face is really quite top notch. But I think the entourage/bridal crew had some character issues.

Mary: Okay, run those down.

Annie: There’s the sexed-crazed mother of three boys and then there’s her opposite, the girl who wants the Pixar-themed bridal shower. Then there’s the prissy country club lady and the Fight Club big, burly girl. The characters seemed based on opposites, which to me is an easy ‘out’ for developing characters, but again, this is a ‘chick flick’ or whatever you want to call it. It’s a comedy, so it’s not like I should expect fully drawn and developed characters.

Mary: That is the nature of the ensemble comedy, to some extent. Broad strokes. See what I did there? I will say, what this movie needed was more Ellie Kemper. MORE ELLIE KEMPER. She got short shrift. I don’t know why her subplot vanished.

Annie: A lot of the subplots did. Wendi McLendon-Covey’s character basically disappeared.

Mary: Yet the movie managed to go on for over two hours. What about the amazing Melissa McCarthy, who stole every scene she was in?

Annie: Dude she totally stole it.

Mary: David Edelstein wrote that she “gets mostly jokes exploiting her girth.”

Annie: She might’ve started as a stereotype, but she became something different. So I disagree. I don’t think it’s the girth that made her funny, though that was part of it. When the camera’s focusing on her ass as she’s bending over people–it was definitely exploiting her girth. But, that’s not doing justice to her whole character.

Mary: So once again, there was no need for the cheap jokes because there were other, better jokes in there. Melissa McCarthy’s character was fantastic. She’s the only one of these ladies who’s got it together. She knows who she is, she knows what she wants (puppies!) and she has far fewer hang-ups than everyone else.

Annie: Exactly. That was refreshing. Did you read that thing on Salon where Rebecca Traister said people should see this movie because it’s a social responsibility?

Mary: Yes.

Annie: I don’t think seeing this movie is a social responsibility. At all.

Mary: No, of course not. I’m reminded of something that, I think, Carrie Brownstein said in an interview ages ago—I can’t remember where, so I’m paraphrasing, but it was something about people asking what it’s like to be a woman in rock. And she was like, Well, you’re always being asked what it’s like to be a woman in rock.

Annie: She’s awesome.

Mary: I love her. I want her to make a movie with Fred Armisen. I would watch the hell out of that.

Annie: Double word.

Mary: But it’s true, though, that part of the conversation here is the way we talk about these movies, the way we decide what they do or don’t represent. The movie stops being a movie on its merits or lack thereof.

Annie: Right, this movie lacks a lot of merits, and has a lot of merits. But, no, it’s not a social responsibility. That shit makes me crazy.

Mary: At the same time, it is important to recognize the ways in which it does represent progress, or at least an enlarging of the cinematic menu. Even if it is an appetizer-sized enlargement.

Annie: I agree there, but fucking social responsibility? God. You know what is a fucking social responsibility? Fucking voting. Washing your fucking hands.

Mary: I’m curious, what was the audience mix when you saw it? The screening I went to was 50/50 dudes/ladies.

Annie: I saw it in TriBeCa, so there were a lot of white people who probably work at a hedge fund. It was a lot of couples, and the occasional group of gay guys, who really laughed hard when Annie called that high school girl a cunt.

Mary: That killed here in Maine, too. “Cunt” is a slang term for a baby lobster. Annie: Whenever there was a sappy scene, like when the cop did something nice-

Mary: People aww’d! Right??

Annie: Yeah.

Mary: There was so much awwing!

Annie: So. Many. Awws. SERIOUSLY, PEOPLE? So then I’d laugh at all the awws. I never aww at movies. Maybe I’m dead inside.

Mary: I saw this with a ladyfriend, and there were two dudes sitting in front of us. They aww’d!

Annie: Ironic aww? Or genuine aww?

Mary: No. No. They were feeling it. When she left the cake for the cop. My friend and I were like, ARE YOU SERIOUS?! So there goes that notion of who wants the rom in the rom-com. Speaking of cake, Annie’s “passion” had to be baking.

Annie: Oh I KNOW, that was weak.

Mary: I realize they had to give her something that would be montage-friendly. If her passion were, say, writing hilarious movie scripts, it’d just be her sitting there typing.

Annie: I couldn’t tell if they were trying to be serious or making a statement or making fun.

Mary: I thought it was serious.

Annie: Right, but her passion could’ve been anything. She could be training seeing eye dogs. That’s montage-friendly.

Mary: It didn’t seem to fit her character at all. I didn’t buy it. I didn’t buy Kristen Wiig decorating that cupcake.

Annie: Also the cupcake was gross. Anything but baking.

Mary: And of course she had to shove it in her face, alone, because of feelings.

Annie: Right, eat her feelings, etc.

Mary: But baking helped her get her man. Although I think they wanted us to think that the baking itself wasn’t what mattered, it was that he loved her when she was “true to herself.”

Annie: It would’ve been better, even, if she were a shitty baker. Like, Oh, that’s why the cake shop didn’t do so well. You can love doing something and be bad at it. That’s more refreshing, to me.

Mary: Speaking of the love interest, the cop, Chris O’Dowd. Why so many Irish/British people in Milwaukee? There’s him and Annie’s roommates. I respect that they didn’t bother explaining that too much.

Annie: They pointed it out, when she asked how he became a cop, and then it was over. But it was kind of stupid. They could’ve gotten anyone to play that part.

Mary: True, but I thought dropping him in there with minimal explanation was clever: I read it as a wink to the contrivance of the rom-com. They know we know they need a sexy cop, so here he is, let’s move on.

Annie: Oh, I didn’t give it that much credit.

Mary: I’m trying to be nice. Always trying to be nice!

Annie: Yeah. I wondered that if, as a lady, I didn’t like this movie, would I be called ‘catty’ or ‘jealous’ or something along those lines? And if I liked it, being a lady, would I be accused of being supportive of a movie that doesn’t deserve it?

Mary: It’s that idea that if we don’t support this movie, we won’t get any more.

Annie: Maybe we’re fucked either way.

Mary: Maybe. My fantasy is that in ten years we’ll look back on Bridesmaids and wonder why everyone made such a big deal about it.

Annie: I think that’s reasonable.

Mary: Because by then we’ll have smart, funny movies that happen to be made by/with women, maybe even with plots that don’t involve weddings or babies.

Annie: Right, and you won’t know/care.

Mary: And we’ll all ride our hovercrafts down to the multiplex.

Annie: Dude. Teleport. Hovercrafts are for chumps. Don’t be a chump, Mary.

Mary: Yes. Teleport, and plug into the popcorn tubes. Oh, we should mention Wilson Phillips.

Annie: Wilson Phillips was a cheap trick, but one that was on par with every other comedy.

Mary: Cheap Trick would’ve been good too.

Annie: Maybe better. The dude could’ve played that six-neck guitar.

Mary: Ha!

Annie: Oh, I’m sorry, it was only FIVE necks.

Mary: Bottom line, then: is Bridesmaids GOOD FOR LADIES y/n??

Annie: Oh come on, don’t make me answer that.

Mary: That is the correct answer!

Annie: Haha! I won!

I’D LIKE TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING. THIS IS A PICTURE OF THE WATER COOLER IN MY OFFICE.

I think it’s juice? Tea? I have NO idea. What makes that color even? It looks like the water cooler had its PERIOD all over the place. It’s disgusting. And whoever did it is certainly NOT going to clean it up. Especially since I just yelled at the entire floor for being fucking disgusting. So no one’s gonna own to that. Not after me going OH MY FUCKING GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? FUCKING CLEAN YOUR SHIT UP.

This is like only marginally better than the Lady Who Pees All Over the Seat. The big difference, other than urine, is that the LWPAOtS doesn’t work in the same office. This MYSTERIOUS PERSON WHO PUT THE WATER COOLER ON THE RAG is someone I see every day. Dude. I’m going to scream.

Maybe it’s Haterade.

I send my laundry out to get done. This is because I have a life to lead. Also this is what New Yorkers do. They pay someone a ridiculous amount of money to do their laundry. I feel that New Yorkers are always paying a ridiculous amount of money for something–shoes, coats, handbags, coffee. Except not cabs. Cabs are cheap here. I rode a cab in L.A. once. Have you guys done this? It’s like $1,000 dollars. That’s USD. Laundry’s cheap in L.A. It’s free if I do it at my parents’ house, but I mean, in general. Everyone in L.A. has a washing machine. Because they are civilized people. In New York, some of us don’t even have bathroom sinks.

Anyway, I get my laundry back and what I’ve noticed is that over the years, I’ve slowly lost a bunch of underwear and socks and shirts. Like I used to just be swimming in goddamn underwear and socks, and now suddenly I have like 3 pairs of each. Horrible. Sometimes I think the laundry people just steal my undies and my socks just so I have to do laundry more often, but actually they don’t do that because they are Korean and you know, Koreans try not to stick it to other Koreans, though who knows. Maybe they don’t give a shit. Point is, yes, I send out my laundry.

So in this last load, instead of losing something, I got a little extra something. Here I am putting away my neatly folded clothes because Koreans know how to fold goddamn clothes like champions, and I see this shirt. It is gray. I have many gray shirts. But this particular shirt does not belong to me. How do I know this?

Because it is a crop top.

Let’s discuss crop tops, shall we? Crop tops make NO sense to me. It is like, hey here’s a shirt, oh wait WHERE IS THE REST OF IT? I DON’T KNOW IT IS A MYSTERY. I GOT IT ON SALE IT WAS HALF OFF HA HA HA HA.

But I have a question: Where does one wear a crop top? Where are you like, hmmm what should I wear today? Oh I’m going to the office, maybe I should wear my CROP TOP. Or, hey do you want to go out to dinner? Yeah sure, let me just go home and change into my CROP TOP. Oh I have to appear in court today good thing I’m wearing my CROP TOP. Like I just don’t know when it’d be appropriate to wear one. Maybe when you go to Jazzercise on Tuesday nights.

IN ADDITION: Most people look like ASS in crop tops. I mean that. It’s just such an unflattering shape. Accentuates a good thing–perhaps–but at the expense of a lot of other things. EVEN if you have rock hard tasty abs. It just looks totally unclassy. My mother would totally be appalled. She would be like OH MY GOSH YOU SEE HER BELLY. WHERE IS REST OF HER SHIRT? And I’d be like dude, pay attention, it is a mystery.

CROP TOP.

Also: It’s like fucking COLD here right now. WHY ARE YOU WEARING A CROP TOP IN THIS WEATHER?

I’m turning into an old lady. Sad, but also, awesome.

To whoever barfed in my subway station this morning:

I want to salute you for being you. Thank you. You are a winner. You are the triumphant champion of Thursday night raging. I can tell you had a lovely night.

Here is how I think it went down: It started with happy hour. I find that his is how most Thursday night ragings start. How can anyone resist a 2-for-1? A two-for! Everyone loves a bargain, especially you. How about 2 for $6 special on drafts? How can anyone resist half off martinis? I don’t even drink martinis, but if it’s half off, I’m sure as hell going to drink the shit out of one. Or what about the $5 can of Tecate + tequila? Tecate is not a good beer. And tequila is not a good liquor, for the most part. But together they make even the saddest hour a most happy occasion. So it started there. At a bar, after work. Co-workers came. Then friends came. And then suddenly it is only 7 o’clock post meridian. You are having a very good time, but there’s a problem.

You are hungry.

This is where members of the group split off. But not you. You do not quit. You are no fucking quitter. You are a champion. You are the conqueror. You are a barbarian, a machine, a terminator, a killer. You are, in some ways, every role Arnold Schwarzenegger ever played, except for the kindergarten cop.

You decide you are going to eat the living shit out of dinner. You and friends decide on a place. Someone says, I know this Italian place. It is close. Close is good. You go. You are seated right away because its only 7:30. That is when the wine portion of the evening begins. You get the cheapest, most drinkable merlot. Cheers, clink, etc. You decide to order the spaghetti bolognese. Why not? You deserve it. It has been one hell of a week, even though, technically, it is not over. But first, another bottle for the table. You may or may not spill on your shirt. If you’re me, you probably spill on your shirt. But you’re not me. You are a person who is eating spaghetti bolognese. Without the salad though. Because salad is an unnecessary part of Thursday night raging. Salad is for civilized Saturday night dates with a lady and/or gentleman friend. Fuck salad anyway.

But then, another bottle of wine. At this point, if you are keeping track, you are on the third bottle for the table. But, you know, there are maybe five of you, so it’s not that big of a deal, right? Also you’re eating so that soaks it all up, so it doesn’t count. Right? Yeah, no it doesn’t count.

Dinner is over, and you, to be honest, have maybe a little rager going on in your brainspace. You are having a very interesting and awesome time with this drinkable merlot. Or now maybe it’s a granache. Whatever, it’s red. It’s on your shirt.

Ok how about ONE MORE drink? You know because it’s not even 9 o’clock yet. Let’s kick it at this other bar. I know a place. Now this bar is crowded. For some reason there are Australians in this bar. You are talking to an Australian. You decide to buy the Australian a drink, and also one for yourself. Not because you want to make pants sandwich with this Australian, but because the Australian is a garrulous and friendly kind of person. You decide on whiskey because, why not? You’re certainly not going to order Foster’s. They don’t have that crap here. It’s Tecate or whiskey. Again with the Tecate. Not a good beer. Later you order it anyway even though it is no longer the hour of happiness and the special is not in affect. This is because you thought the special was in affect.

Now it is official. You are drunk. You are not pissing on yourself or anything, but you realize, you know what? I’m an adult person. I have a good job, I’m a responsible person. I should probably go home. Do I cab it? Do I take the subway? Well, it’s only 11 o’clock. I should save money. This is what you are thinking. Money should be saved. Cabs are a luxury for Saturday night. This is Thursday, fuckers. Subway it is. Wait, is the C train running?

You walk down the stairs, and then. Well, you know how it went down. You feel something. A little rumble in the Bronx as they say, except you are in Manhattan. Funny how that works. And now you do the sway, that’s like the move where you are listening to Tina Turner’s “Private Dancer” in your private brain and really feeling it. Well it might be a Strokes song though. Should I sit down on the steps just for a second? NO, no the steps are gross. Haven’t been cleaned since 1995.

Wait…wait…something…is wrong.

Sploosh.

And then a pause. I think I feel better.

Sploosh.

You think, maybe a cab is in order.

So that is what you do. You don’t sploosh in the cab though. It is some kind of Jesus baby miracle.

You get home. Then you fall asleep, with your shoes on. Lights are also on. Pants most definitely on, though maybe it’s a little unbuttoned. Glasses somewhere. Dunno where. Phone somewhere too, most likely in the cab. Or in the bar with the Australians.

Then the next morning, a person goes down the subway, running to the train that is pulling into the station. And perhaps this person steps in your spaghetti bolognese.

This person may or may not be me, Annie Choi.

Congratulations, friend. You have kicked the living shit out of Thursday night. You deserve an award. I salute you.

I wanted to holla at everyone at the Asian Pacific America Coalition over at Fordham University. Thanks for inviting me today. It was good times. Stay out of jail, everyone. I mean that. Tiger children do not belong in jail. Fact: Tiger children become the “CEO of Wall Street”. Yeah, I don’t know what that means either, but I like it.

Also a quick shout out to CREAM PUFFS.