So, I am like, officially severely depressed. When I used to get like this when I was younger, I would fight it really hard. I would listen to all of the people who were like, “Just go for a run, endorphins are good for you!” or “Stop drinking, drinking is a depressant!” And I would try all of the shit that they told me to do, and none of it would work, and that would make me feel even more desperate because I would start to lose hope that I would feel better. I’ll tell you the only thing that has ever snapped me out of depression quickly, and that is MDMA, I shit you not, I don’t want to talk about it anymore because my family reads this, and also, I feel really uncomfortable even admitting I’ve done that drug, I want to be clean cut.
People who say you need a clear mind and consciousness and to eat well and do yoga to have a balanced minds have genetically balanced minds that might get a little bit mixed up because of life happenings. People who have fucked up inbred island-born Irish Catholic minds like mine know that there’s really nothing you can do to save yourself besides go on medication, which is exactly what I’m going to do so that I can start walking around my neighborhood without saying meaningful things like, “I fucking hate this place, if I have to stay here for one more day, I am going to fucking kill myself.”
I understand, after talking to some people this weekend, that I am not alone in feeling depressed. I’m pretty sure almost everyone I know in New York in depressed to some degree, with varying degrees of functionality. This is a horrible place to live, I’ll tell you. People use the excuse of, “There’s so much going on here that doesn’t happen in other places!” Without admitting that they don’t go to the things happening here because they are full of hundreds of Brooklyn children on scooters in Crew Cuts clothing screaming and making everyone else hate children. Such as was the case with the street fair that happened in my neighborhood yesterday, which caused a traffic jam for a ten-block radius, and caused me to call Caleb hysterically crying because I couldn’t find parking anywhere, not even in front of a goddamn fire hydrant.
Real People I Love: Kate, A Woman With A Hairless Cat, An Apartment in Bushwick and a Gut Feeling She Belongs in New York
Hey y’all. In the weeks before the wedding, knowing I wouldn’t have much time to write, I asked a few women I’ve met if they’d agree to do an interview with me for my blog. They were women that I’ve met through various channels — other friends, Facebook, Tumblr — whom I’ve corresponded with for a while online before meeting in person.
One of these women was named Kate, and I met her a few weeks ago for dinner in Williamsburg. Our friend in Los Angeles set us up; she said we would fall in love, and we did, at a communal table while a dumpy couple with identically bad complexions gaped at us while we talked about ecstasy, hairless cats, denim dresses, and God.
The story of our generation of women has yet to be written. The only models we have thus far are extremes — the extreme privilege and attitude towards sex as characterized by Girls; the extreme lifestyle promoted by “Lean In,” in which women must model her behavior after men in order to be successful in a male-constructed corporate world; and the extreme attitudes about sex, love, marriage and motherhood promoted by articles about women in New York Magazine and The Atlantic.
I thought it might be interesting to tell the story of Kate, a woman who lives in Bushwick with her hairless cat, Smalls; has parents who live in Maine, one of whom is a pilot; who falls in love; who isn’t famous; who doesn’t live a life based around some sort of ideology; who works an office job. She’s like me; she’s not like me. She’s completely unique, but also normal. I think she’s really wonderful.
I wish I could write a better introduction to her, but I don’t have fucking time thanks to this goddamn wedding (I thought I was above the wedding thing — GUESS WHAT I’M NOT), so instead, I leave you her answers to my insane questions, unedited and uncut.
1. What’s your job, exactly?
Oh, I’m a glorified secretary. Everyone thinks I’m being self-depricating when I say that, but, not only am I not self-deprecating, it’s true and it’s exactly the job I applied for and exactly the job I want. I say good morning to everyone as they filter in, I buy the groceries, and restock the snacks, I clean the kitchen, I ask about mothers and kids (that’s not true, I actually don’t ask about anyone ever because I don’t really care, they volunteer and I humor the convo…when in Rome), I suffer fools and affect, and I sass everyone within earshot and within inches of HR violations. Also, I have two different nail files an arm’s length away, references to the need for coffee and alcohol on various pieces of flair, and pictures of my cat wallpapering my desk walls. I’m a secretary.
Whenever the couple in the apartment below us turns on their television, I stomp on the floor. They must not know what that means because the volume gets neither louder nor softer.
“Did those people drop their bowling ball again?” I imagine they say to each other.
When they first moved in last summer, Caleb reported that they were Australian — or at least had Australian-sounding accents. He ran into them outside, and they told him they had relocated to Brooklyn from Houston. They had three gigantic dogs, and a couch so dirty that Caleb couldn’t believe they were moving it into their new apartment. “I think they might be white trash,” he relayed to me mournfully on the car ride home from LaGuardia airport, where I had just landed after being trapped in the bowels of hell (Florida).
“Their dogs bark constantly, and their television is on night and day,” he continued. “Our floors vibrate. I think this is going to be problematic.”
Caleb’s fear infected me. I hated the neighbors immediately.