THE FASHION & LIFESTYLE MAGAZINE FOR CITY WOMEN AND MEN

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fall ’13

Written by admin, 5 years ago, 0 Comments

I can’t stand the summer rush of interns that seem to linger on into the fall months. Since when are you qualified to act like you actually know this city? I laugh at these twenty-somethings who move here from some God forsaken hole in backcountry America to spend their days as an office bitch for an irrelevant company. These people actually think they are ‘success’ stories since they share a studio with three other people and lasted in the city for three consecutive months. They like to walk around as if they are one of us, the natives, and pretend to know about the heart of this city. It’s hilarious. Just because you lived here on Daddy’s check and got three credits at school for getting the entire office coffee everyday doesn’t mean you lived in New York. You crowd our bars and hangout spots for three months and bug the shit out of me. Go home and brag about your life to people back there, because I don’t want to hear your bullshit about how Tenth Avenue is a haven for hookers and how you actually got robbed in Spanish Harlem. You don’t know shit and need to be put back into your place. Frank,Publishing, Midtown

Okay, I am single. I am 27. I am not planning on marrying because I don’t even have a boyfriend, and to be honest a boyfriend is not high on my list of priorities. And I am NOT planning on children. Ever. I don’t need them. I don’t want them. I don’t see them fitting into my life now, or five years in the future, or frankly ever. And yet everyone I’ve said this to? ‘Oh, you’ll change your mind.’ ‘You’ll feel differently when you’re older/before long.’ ‘It’s different when they’re yours.’ ‘But WHY?’ ‘How can you not want children?’ ‘Don’t you owe it to your parents?’ All of you get the fuck out. It’s none of your business why I don’t want to have children, and it’s absolutely none of your business where my decision stands with my parents. Why would you think that your desire to spawn obviously means that I must have the same want? Let me tell you – just because I have lady parts capable does not mean I want them to be put to use for it. And how dare you talk down to me like a child is obviously the end-all destiny of my life and imply that I’m being selfish not to give in? Being barely able to keep myself in a tiny ass apartment, there is no sound financial reason to have a child and get us both kicked out of it. Keep your fantasized, fetishized delusion of the wonders of children to yourself – I want no part of it. Jess, PR, Clinton

When did it become socially acceptable to live for nightlife? I understand the allure of living in one of the world’s most active cities, but didn’t we all move here for a reason? To find a career among thousands of competitors, or to leave behind a past in our small towns, or even to find one person to spend the rest of our lives with? We are a special breed of humans, New Yorkers: we are motivated to achieve the impossible. Everyday we have our share of failures and success, but we always move forward. So when did it become okay to make excuses to go out every night? I watch as my friends try and hold onto pieces of our juvenile revelry and crash their younger sibling’s parties. Grown ass girls actually holding their head up when they sneak into parties at NYU. I don’t understand the appeal of drinking cheap alcohol with people who are almost half your age only to end up smoking smelly marijuana on St. Marks Place wondering where life went. Whitney, Lawyer, Astoria

I love me some selfies. I have no shame in totally loving myself in front of other people because I’m damn fly and y’all need to handle that. But I can’t deal with this whole Snapchat craze. I hate reading damn tweets from people about cat videos or how they just did laundry or some shit. So why the hell would I want to get incessant pictures of you doing stupid shit? Or photos of you doing nothing? Snapchat takes the selfie to a whole new level that I’m just not cool with. Honestly, I get that you love to dress up like a hoe and are constantly drunk. Or that you just took a shower, then used a blow dryer, then brushed your teeth. Or that you’re on the toilet. But I’m damn tired of my phone blowing up with your stupid shit. I can’t wait till Snapchat creates a block option so I can block your ass. Send me another Snapchat again, I dare you, and I’ll do more than just screenshot that shit. Nia, Retail, Bedford Stuyvesant

The local bodega is like our second home. I spend more time rummaging in my deli’s dirty soda cooler than I do anywhere else in this world. I have tried every single variety of potato chip and every pack of gum that collected dust on those dirty shelves. But the worst part of the endless shopping at city delis? Those damn hot bars. Most of the time, I just want a specific item: a bottle of overpriced P**, a expensive roll of the cheap Viva paper towels, or an A**’* burrito that has been sitting in the freezer for over a year. But then I catch a wiff of the overheated, poorly-made meatloaf that has been sitting next to the mac and cheese and I just go into a frenzy. Do you think anyone actually pays $6.99 a pound for a mish-mash mix of the greasy attempts at American favorites? Hell no. The owners just place over 40 dishes smack in the middle of their dingy stores to get you to salivate. And to come again. Don’t we just love them? Harley, Beautician, Financial District

You know how Creed has that song, “Arms Wide Open?” See how they specify, “arms?” It’s because even the bro-iest band in all of Dude Brah Land knows it should never be, “Legs.” Because, right? Who would ever? Oh, only every single man on every single subway train. It’s like the subway doors are a magical portal that magnifies the amount of seat space a dude needs by a factor of “all of my space, and most of yours too.” Dudes. Scott Stahhhhpp it.
Nicky, Florist, Park Avenue
Oh my Foghorn, with your chickens, already. Congratulations. You have transported a slice of the agrarian ideal into the city limits, and suddenly you’re Old MacDonald had a Three-Egg Omelet. Forget that they’re not fool-proof, mess-free egg factories, forget that castoff cluckers are filling up shelters, and forget that your neighbors might find your fowl, foul. Mostly, we just don’t want to hear about “your girls,” or “your coop,” because you’ve got some smug on your face, there Farmer Brown. E-I-E-I-NO. Cynthia, Broadcaster, UWS

Heres the thing, I am not going to give my real name and end my days of nookie prematurely and permanently (and anyway I’m sure I speak for so many members of the male gender) but what is it with unashamedly putting shovel-loads of shit on your female faces, in full view, on the subway journey every morning: creams and powders and pencils and liquids; patted and powdered, smoothed, rubbed and rouged. Guys, Lord knows we know you don’t really have perfect peachy skin with blushed cheeks and full, round red lips, but it only needs for last night’s obvious excesses to be touched up not a basement-up revitalization. Have confidence in yourselves for goodness sake and some faith in the male sex because believe me your score goes down with each layer you lather on as we sit and watch just what it takes to make you oven-ready for the office. Barry, Sales, Queens

An Open Letter to Parents Regarding Your Strollers: When you have a child that can’t walk, I understand them. You don’t want to be immobilized in the wasteland that is now your house-with-small-child. Who would? So in the stroller they go and you can go for a walk. Great. But when you bring your giant baby tank that carries more of your own shit than the baby into the subway during rush hour? Fuck the fuck off. A subway car is approximately 4-feet wide, and at least a foot of that is taken up on either side by seats. During rush hour there are already people packing into those cars as if the world was ending and this exact car is the only one that stands a chance in hell of getting out; I do NOT need your fucking Baby Tank slamming into my knees and knocking me even further into the unwashed man that I’m already pressed back to front with. And then you have the audacity to look at me like it’s my fault there isn’t enough room for your Hummer-sans-engine? No. Wait for the next fucking train. Even worse than you with the Hummer and tiny children are you who bring the Baby Tank with children who are big enough to sit on seats – and let them sit on seats while leaving the tank open. There is already not enough room on this goddamn train. I am tired, I am probably carrying a really heavy bag, and now not only can’t I sit because your sprog is too precious to be kept in its tank, but I can’t even stand comfortably because said fucking tank is rolling over my toes. Olivia, Writer, Gramercy