And it was “If a guy tells you he’s not into you just for sex, what does that mean?”
This friend told me that this guy she’s been hanging out with for the last couple weeks was gushing about how into her he was, and it all sounded really nice and made her feel happy until he said “I like you a lot, it’s not just for sex.” She said that she immediately became suspicious of the statement because no one had ever made the point of including that information in a profession of “like”. She couldn’t decide if it sounded like a dishonest person bringing up the lie in the situation to try to dismiss a doubt as part of their plan to get just that which they had mentioned, or if it was a genuine comment.
Filed under: Essay, Ha-Ha's | Tags: awkward dancing, beer, Scott Tomford, Sharon Clark, triple canopy party in bushwick
Last night, Scott was scheduled to bartend at a Triple Canopy event in Bushwick. Two friends of ours were supposed to tag along with us so that I’d have people to stand around and look cool with while Scott was opening bottles for rowdy literary enthusiasts. Right before we were going to leave, Gray called and said he didn’t really want to go out and couldn’t get a hold of our friend Jared. I decided in advance that I would go into the party with a good attitude about standing around in a crowd of people I didn’t know after drinking a couple of beers. I have to say, I was pretty excited for the party. I even took time to pick out a nice outfit and make my hair look cute.
When we got into the party space, I didn’t panic with fear about appearing to be one of those people that shows up to social events alone and doesn’t even bother to interact with other people. I figured I wouldn’t think too much about the way people were looking at me, so I took my place against a wall and let the party unfold around me.
Part of the party unfolding, however, was a barrage of pick-up lines, awkward attempts at conversations, and glares from predators across the room. Of course, of the many syndromes that are associated with partying (including lunch-table syndrome — usually of the lady’s sewing circle variety) Gazelle syndrome is the most prevalent in shy girls that stand up against walls and drink beer alone, occasionally wandering onto the dance floor to relieve the leg cramps from shifting weight from left foot to right foot and so on.
At first when I heard about this New York Magazine article about New Yorkers moving to Buffalo, I was afraid. Afraid as in “Damnit, they’re foiling my plan by sending flocks of poor stuff white people like Brooklynites to the city I’ve wanted to live in after graduation when I’m poor!” I still feel the same way.
I read it this morning on the train from Ridgewood to Clinton Hill and (since I’ve been really unstable in the emotional department) I got glossy-eyed a few times. Mostly because I know I would’ve saved money if I had just moved to Buffalo after high school in the first place, and also because I know that if I hadn’t moved to New York to become used to an urban environment with everything at my fingertips, I wouldn’t value the scuzzy city to the west as much as I do every time I go home.
Filed under: Essay, Prattstitutes | Tags: grasshopper, kendo sword, stick of butter, stupid
From time to time, I have these moments where words come out of my mouth and I think “Sharon, you could’ve thought that out for at least two seconds more and had your answer instead of making everyone listening to you think you’re stupid.” I feel like this has been happening more frequently these days. I tend to say things like: “My dad is adopted but we think he’s like 100% French Canadian or something, but like, I don’t understand how I compute my percentages.”
And everyone sitting there is like “Um, you just halve their percentages, add them and that’s yours.” Which I knew, but I was really thinking about the fact that my mom is French Canadian too, so I was trying to think of what she is and what it would make my percentage with my dad. Not that it matters.
Then there are the times I draw a blank: “Who are your favorite poets/writers?”
I sort of stammer for a second and then try to remember the last book of poetry I read that I really liked, but I always default on something I read a long time ago and answer “Jack Gilbert, Kenneth Koch, etc.” And then I feel like I’m lying to the person. Wouldn’t I know who my favorite writers were off the top of my head? They know I’m up to something.
So these are probably just little things that I shouldn’t worry about too much, but I dwell on them for the entire day and well into the next. I worry about what the other people thought of me when I said what I did, and I usually tell myself that they thought I was incredibly stupid. Next I begin telling myself that I’m not smart.
Difference in definition?
Stupid means dull/slow and smart means quick/sharp. Is it possible to be a combination of both, or am I really just stoopit? Am I dull/quick like a speeding stick of butter, or slow/sharp like a kendo sword attached to a turtle? Ah, grasshoppah.
I frequently have moments on the internet where I come across something and think, “God damnit, why didn’t I do that?” Today that happened when someone sent me a link to this on nymag’s DailyIntel, but rather than say “Why didn’t I do that?” I just said “God damnit.” Mostly, I’m just glad it’s normal to feel like the literary/media world is sort of like Laguna Beach or The Hills. There are rivaling cliques that sometimes fuck each other, and all the people in the different cliques are “frenemies.”
Any talent that Alec has could be stripped from him because from now on, he’s no longer writing for himself, he’s writing for Gessen, for Emily Gould, with her tattoos and her book deal, for the fucking New York Times Book Review, where he initially targeted the rage that brought him to this very spot.
I briefly found myself writing for an Emily Gould type, but my heart was broken after the New York Times Magazine piece. The other day I saw her sitting in a coffee shop near the park where I dog walk, and I came really close to shaking my fist at her.
“This experience has left me to grapple with learning how to remain an honest writer in New York: In truth, I’m not sure it can be done.”
Because everything is so personal in literature and media, it’s hard to separate the professional environment from personal life. I’ve recently started wondering if things will just evolve (or devolve) even more to the point that the line between personal and professional will be nonexistent. Until that actually happens, there is a reason why all of us lucky young kids chose to come to New York and make our parents pay outrageous sums for our college educations. Originally, there was passion and now it seems that the longer we spend time in New York, the more jaded we become. This is obvious, but I think that I become more jaded when I struggle with imagining myself fitting in with these people that I’ve subjected myself too. Do I really want to be part of this circle-jerk? Indefinitely, yes. I do.
The top three people on the Internet that I am aware of being on the receiving end of “shit talking” are:
1. Keith Gessen
2. Emily Gould
3. Tao Lin
Filed under: Essay
Soon to come:
I’m sure someone has. Both are hated by Gawker although Tao Lin is not defensive.
2. Gawker and Keith Gessen’s relationship.