It’s been quite the Fashion Month. First, Kanye decided to orchestrate a bona fide model barbecue out in Roosevelt Island. Then, blogger drama ensued. Last but not least, Kim K. fell victim to some serious gangster games, triggering a not-so-positive display of human nature. But we cannot let West-Kardashian drama divert from the most important part of the biannual extravaganza: the actual sartorial goodness that graced the runways! Let’s take a walk on the wild side of the SS17 Paris Fashion Week collections and decipher how these pieces can be utilized to boost, confuse, or annihilate our love lives! Read More
Oh, weddings. They make the occasional guest appearance in your early twenties, then pile up in bulk a few years later (like student loans! and wrinkles!), progressively losing any of the associated glamour and morphing into money-sucking productions that strip you of your hard-earned cash and precious weekends. If you happen to be single, they also inadvertently highlight said fact by putting you in a number of consecutive awkward positions, from booking solo hotel rooms to sharing tables with fellow lepers singles while all your coupled-up friends have fun just a few feet away. Having endured my fair share of such extravagansas, I find myself aptly fit to provide a wedding survival guide that will teach you to approach said mission with military level-strategy.
When it comes to relationships, I am bad by definition. (I am, after all, the author of a blog called Dbag Dating.) To my mother’s chagrin more so than my own, I have no game, no sense of timing, and no skills when it comes to transitioning from casual encounter to long-term commitment.
Despite this obstacle, I happen to be blessed with what I have been told is a rare talent. You see, I happen to be capable of meeting guys anywhere I go. Whether you take me parasailing or grocery shopping or just ask me to take out the trash, chances are that I will come back with a glowing announcement of just having dispersed my digits. Basically, I am a fisherman who always comes home with a prize – except that, in most cases, said prize either immediately dives back into the water, or ends up being too poisonous for consumption. My friend Rachel calls this a case of crazy smelling crazy. I call it genius. And since most genius deserves to be shared, share it I will! (But only if you guy promise to educate me on the relationship part! Please! I need it!)
According to my Snapchat, the whole world is on vacation.
Unlike The Row bags or Gucci slippers or any other commodities flaunted by fancy people that I cannot afford, travel is the only luxury capable of evoking an unsettling feeling of jealousy within me, making me want to order a new credit card and ditch real life for the foreseeable future. What I often fail to forget is that a proper staycation can often be as liberating – and fun – as any getaway, particularly if said adventure takes place in New York City, a bona fide playground for unforeseen exploits. If approached strategically, staycations can also be quite beneficial for your love life, giving you an opportunity to reboot your romantic chakras, man roster, and mentality! All you have to do is follow these simple guidelines.
Stage yourself a weekend-long speed dating event, rounding up all the humanoids you have been conversing with via dating apps but have failed to actually meet in person. Schedule all dates in proximate neighborhoods, within two-hour time windows that will ensure that you will a – never be alone and b – feel like you have a boyfriend all weekend. Oh, call them all BABE to avoid silly errors.
I still remember my first adult “date” in New York City. I was seventeen years old and my brother took me to the Monday night party at a very happening club called Pangea, where I met an Israeli promoter named Ilan, who invited me to accompany him to dinner and another club called Sway the following week. He was super cute and I was super excited, especially when I saw him on MTV’s Room Raiders and realized that I had been picked up by a real celebrity! Little did I know that “dinner” was actually a comped promoter fiesta, consisting of about twenty lithe blondes, all of whom would be joining us to adorn the banquettes of Sway afterwards. And yet, I stayed until the very end of the night, hoping to get the attention of Ilan, who spoke to me once an hour to ask if I wanted more Grey Goose in my vodka-cranberry.
If you live in the Hallmark States of America, as I have the (dubious) fortune of doing these days, chances are that you can’t swing a box of tampons without stumbling across what looks like the rose-toned projectile vomit of a cheap chocolate factory, masquerading as a manifesto of undying love.
(Wow, how bitter did that come out?!)
The truth is that, like most people past the age of sixteen, I could give two loads about Valentine’s Day. (Pardon my soon-to-be-forgotten French.) For the couples, said fête implies obligatory relationship checkmarks in the form of last-minute dinner reservations and overpriced bouquets; for singles, it simply offers an excuse for an extra glass of wine or an extra Gucci splurge or whatever else Hallmark Holidays evoke in those who do not fall under their mass target range. Don’t even get me started on the quadrillion-dollar Valentine’s Day industry, annually serving up processed sugar and poorly-copywritten bullshit without a hint of remorse.
(But, seriously, how angry do I sound?! I am the ANTI-establishment! Like Rihanna!)