I frequently read articles on Buzzfeed and those junk websites (Thought Catalog?) about introverts. “You know you’re an introvert if you prefer staying home to parties!” or, “You know you’re an introvert when socializing drains your battery to 20%!” I’m always like, yes, duh.
What I never read is how to maintain friendships both as an introvert, and with an introvert. So I wrote the article myself.
If you still want to hang out with an introvert even though they are one flakey motherfucker, here are some foolproof tips to trick them into meeting you:
1. Make plans somewhere outside of their comfort zone, and then when they text you, “Ooo, I have a stomachache,” be waiting outside of their apartment.
2. Tell them you are going to a $40 exercise class, and then set up a PayPal account to steal their money and give them the address to your apartment.
3. Give an introvert $100 cash in an envelope upfront for having a drink with you, and don’t tell them it’s Monopoly money.
Caleb and I started watching Ray Donovan the other night because we had run out of other options. He has watched 1/20th of the shows I watch, only because I never wait for him. Also he hates watching television. He was like, “Ok, Brie, if we’re going to spend time together, clearly I have to start watching television, so let’s make Ray Donovan our show.” And I was like, “Ok, I know nothing about Ray Donovan, it sort of seems stupid, but let’s do this.”
We got Showtime a few months ago so we could watch the last six episodes of Shameless, and have been too lazy to cancel it. Some other options we might pursue in the future include “Penny Dreadful.”
Anyway, Ray Donovan turned out to be really good! I knew I was going to like it when I read the description of the first episode. “A fixer in Hollywood named Ray Donovan helps a starlet in the hills get rid of a stalker and also deals with issues in his Irish family from Boston.” Or something along those lines. I was like, this is awesome, it sounds like the demented version of Entourage!
While doing some work this morning, I came across a news item that there was a Frank O’Hara reading in the Pines on Fire Island this weekend.
I don’t know if it’s just because I’m older, and people vacation more in their thirties, or if Fire Island has just become more popular, but it sounds like it might be a miserable place to be on the weekends, with the crowds. I increasingly hate it when people do the, “Oh, but me, me, me!” thing on the Internet, but here I go, doing it anyway. My family spent a few summers vacationing in Fire Island when I was younger. We rented a house in Saltaire. We could pet the deer and pick blueberries, and when there was flooding, ride inflatable rafts between houses. My father’s friend from work, Pete, had a family house there. His father was an aide to Mayor Cuomo. He was a broker, my father was a trader. Pete played tennis with my mother. His friend, Duffy, drew portraits of us and took us to the nude beach. We were terrified of him.
One summer there, we had an au pair named Emmanuel. She was from Paris. My sister and I watched her get changed in the little window that connected her room to ours. When she caught us, she screamed. My mother claimed that Emmanuel was constantly eating, including all of the donuts she left out for my father one morning. But really, I think my mother just hated all of our au pairs, especially a girl from Mexico, who wore a bikini to watch us on the beach, and had a perfect body. None of them lasted for more than a few months before they were either fired, or left in despair.
Before I begin, I’d like to take a second to say that I feel bad writing the stupid shit I’m about to write in the wake of the tragedies. Also, how scary is the fucking media? I woke up this morning, and there were like 15 multimedia presentations on the New York Times alone, including one showing bodies smoldering in the wreckage. A soldier walks a mound of detritus, and then taps something with his foot. “There’s a spine,” he says, kicking it aside.
Even the New York Times turns tragedy into entertainment, in other words.
Also, how do the motherfucking television stations get experts so fast? I was in the nail salon last night, watching Fox 5 Local News. Fox 5 Local News. I think the story right before the Malaysian airline was about if pot makes you paranoid, which followed a bit about what sort of clothing is age appropriate. Then they have some ancient army sergeant sitting in the studio, talking about the reasons why the plane went down. Where did they find this guy so quickly? Was he in a retirement home in the basement?
On CNN, they immediately have non-stop visual graphics. “This is a stimulation of the sort of rocket that might hit the plane,” they say, showing a life size simulation on the stage at 7pm. The simulation turns around, it moves forward, it fires off rockets. How do they make this shit so fast? Is everyone who works at CNN on crystal meth?
And they have their own experts weighing in, dozens of them, formulating as many different theories as possible so that viewers keep on watching. You turn back to the New York Times website, and they’ve changed the headlines already, and printed a number of corrections, including that they spelled the fucking name of the Ukranian prime minister wrong. Do they not know how to do a Google search over there?
Anyway, I went to a class called ModelFit the other day.