How Clubbing Has Taught Me To Lie

I would like to start this post with an apology- specifically to those who are subject to my Instagram posts and Snapchat stories.

Sorry for the 80 second long Snapchat story of the same DJ booth under a slightly different set of lights. Sorry for the obnoxious captions (BOTNEK brought me backstage! Smiley Face). And I am sorry for spamming your Instagram feeds with DJ after DJ who a majority of you have literally never heard of. All at the decent hour of 2 AM.

Now that I have conveyed my remorse for spamming your life, let me now point out that you guys have it SO much better than those unlucky enough to be at the same show as me.

As many of you know, it has not been an uncommon occurrence for me to end up in the DJ booth. What many of you don't know is that, rarely do I parade into the DJ booth unquestioned and welcomed with open arms. Life is glamorous once I beat the bouncer, but it's always an adventure getting there.

The notion that I 'belong' in the DJ booth started in Australia. This is because in Australia, after 20 years of life, it finally dawned on me that I could do this really terrible thing- lie. Lying was a skill I assumed I did not have. That was until I boldly marched up to a bouncer claiming I was an incredibly famous DJ in Vegas. I noted that the club would be shamed and ridiculed by the media if he didn't let me in. After a stream of threats, it worked, and I was in.

My sense of entitlement has only deepened from there. Next show, I started yelling at the bouncer that I was the DJs girlfriend. He looked terrified, and let me past as I informed the DJ that I was his new girlfriend (Shout out to Dahra).

The obnoxious social media flaunting once I've gotten in is a personality flaw I'm currently working on. 

The next life event that further encouraged me to lie was an interview I had with an EDM agency. I asked for advice when it came to advancing in the industry. The answer: Get back stage. Sneak back there; start writing for a local blog; do whatever you have to do; but you will go nowhere with no connections. You get back stage, and you start meeting the people who matter. 

It was at this moment that clubbing and networking officially became synonymous in my life. If I could achieve the same level of success in my studies as I do with a drink, my leather pants, and a DJ playing in front of me, then I wouldn't be still searching for a post college job.

For example: This Past Saturday Night.

I went to see Botnek, a DJ duo who have recently gained popularity, and Kill the Noise. As I stood with my brother and two friends, I silently berated myself. Farrell, can you not just relax and have a good time watching the show? Do not leave your brother by himself to go harass the bouncer. Just be happy and try to forget the fact that you might be having a real live anxiety attack standing here in this crowd.

The anxiety attack won as I announced I was taking a bathroom break. I needed to get backstage.

The series of events that followed were, as usual, odd. So I will summarize:

I walked straight into the DJ booth. The bouncer had to use the restroom conveniently when I decided to invite myself in, but as I saw him return, I panicked. I walked right out as he stared at me confused. I probably could have gotten away with staying backstage, however I didn't want to be discovered and kicked out.

My next stop was the bouncer at the front door, who directed me to Kill the Noise's tour manager. I proceeded to tell him a wallowing story about how I was a local college student, trying to get her EDM blog off the ground. I cited my public relations major, my passion for the industry, and emphasized his authority and power.

When I still got a no, I had finally had enough. "Look, I just snuck backstage, but left because I had the decency to come ask you first." He shook his head and said there was nothing he could do. He also suggested I sneak backstage again.

So I complied. 

I marched back up to the backstage door, and informed the bouncer that the tour manager insisted I be let in. He shook his head no, and I again told my self-pity laced story. Struggling writer. Let me in. Or I will harass you for the next thirty minutes.

Once I wouldn't let it go, the bouncer turned to a man to his right who I had not noticed before. "Dude can you just escort this girl back stage? That way I can let her in."

The guy looked at me, and without any tact, the first thing out of my mouth was, "and who are you?"

The guy looked at me confused. "I'm Botnek?" And proceeded to escort me backstage.

Kill the Noise and the guy from Botnek together

In what world would someone believe that I am an EDM blogger when I don't even recognize the DJ? I do not know, but I'm certainly not asking any questions. The tour manager congratulated me on my successful entry, and finally agreed to give me his contact information for networking purposes. The venue's promoter helped me get my brother in, and we had the best view in the house.

All in all, I take this weekend to be an affirmation that I should relentlessly nag any and everyone around me until I get exactly what I want. I can only hope it will continue to be successful.

So until next time,

F

My One Sided Love Story

I contemplated many titles for this post.

Some of the contenders were: "Yes, I am a stalker" and "I'm only psycho for strangers." But I ultimately decided on "my one sided love story" because directly calling myself out for being insane in the title just felt too easy.

We will start from the beginning.  Everyone has their celebrity crush, so naturally mine was bound to be a DJ. I stood inches away from an array of celebrities this past summer and didn't bat an eyelash. Put me next to a DJ- someone catch me when I faint.

The level of obsession reached when I discovered this particular DJ has hit me one other time in my life. That was when I was 14 years old and watched the movie Twilight. Robert Pattinson was it for me. I didn't need anyone else in this world as long as I could come home from school everyday and rewatch his performance as Edward Cullen.

The undying love I had for Robert Pattinson was not something I grew into after continuous exposure to People magazine articles and his films. It was an immediate and all-knowing kind of love. No one could ever come close to replacing him. My teenage loyalties would always belong to Rob.

But then I hit 18, and with maturity and some developed brain cells, I moved on. Electronic Dance Music was my new after school addiction, and Rob just couldn't be my end all be all once Twilight was no longer a past-time.

Insert Porter Robinson.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=at3FPJaAwoY

I heard this song on the radio, downloaded it, and listened to pretty much nothing else for weeks (to the dismay of all family members). My brother, also a fanatic, then off handedly mentioned that Porter lived in Chapel Hill, was a year older than me, and was discovered by my-then favorite DJ, Skrillex.

All of this being said, although my obsession for Porter was not immediate, it was more than mildly concerning once fully developed. 

The fixation started one day when I was doing homework at Starbucks. A guy walked in wearing leather pants, a pony tail with the sides of his head shaved, and an anime printed shirt. I kept staring at this person because his outfit made him worthy of a few seconds of thought. He clearly wasn't from here, but my main feeling towards him was jealousy. I would wear leather pants all day every day in the winter if I didn't live in Chapel Hill, North Carolina where out-there fashion makes people glance nervously over at you like you are some kind of serial killer.

When I finally caught a glance of his profile, everything clicked and that's when it was over. I furiously googled pictures of him and after confirming that it was indeed Porter Robinson, I immediately mass texted my family members and whichever friends were unlucky enough to be in my recent messages.

Many urged me to talk to him, but I can barely gather the courage to talk to acquaintances, much less someone who is inducing hyperventilation, so that was a no-go.

I think the worst thing about this random sighting was what happened afterwards. I probably spend thousand(s) of dollars a year at Starbucks- the addiction was already out of hand. But suddenly I found myself there whenever I had a free thirty minutes, needed to study, wanted to catch up with someone. I was always there, in a cute outfit, just waiting for Porter's return.

And the problem is, he did return- more than once. Each time he showed up, the freak out would become more intense. My chest would feel like it was about to explode, my face would turn beat red, and I would creepily peer over at him between the texting freakouts I was having to my mom and brother.

The third time it happened, my mother called me and told me to "grow a pair and go talk to him." So I did because my mother can be very intimidating.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: Hi, you're Porter right? I love your music.

He stops, looking incredibly taken aback. (This time he was wearing a skirt over jeans- yes actually.)

Porter: Hey, yeah I am. Sorry that surprised me, no one in Chapel Hill ever recognizes me.

Me: Yeah your outfit kind of gives you away. You aren't blending into fratland too well.

The conversation continued about Chapel Hill's general fratty aura, being townies, and about how he was on his way to Trader Joes. And this is all you need to read to understand how the rest of the conversation went (Start at cheese??):

Shout out to Shand for indulging my desire to talk about him. Since our conversation I have seen him one other time, and that time I thought I was actually going to have a heart attack. The physical anxiety was at an all time high.

So I did what I needed to do, and in August, I impulsively bought a ticket to see him play in NYC. I had no flight, nowhere to stay, and no one to go with. But it was Porter, so I knew I had to be there. While I was unable to make it to the DJ booth this time, we did sneak up to the VIP floor (I recruited Alex and Sam to come with me- but be sure I would have been there by myself if I needed to be).

My undying loyalty to those I don't actually know is truly remarkable. This is especially the case considering how emotionlessly I seem to live the rest of my life. The thought of referencing the real-live "love" word about anyone I have been or will be with on this blog makes me want to run to the nearest toilet and vomit. Three cheers for emotional maturity. Physical affection also makes me uncomfortable- I will only hug my mother out of dire necessity aka after she takes me shopping.

The overall moral of this post is that being fixated on a celebrity is totally fine. Until they live 10 minutes away from you, and you keep running into them at Starbucks, which causes you to start living in Starbucks.

So I hope we have all learned our lesson, and if you need me for any reason- you know where to find me.

Until next time.

-F

Music Festivals and Resting Bitch Face: How They Don't Mix

As a college senior, I feel like I'm at the age now where I should start having a very legitimate grasp on who I am.

The idealized perceptions of myself that used to float around in my head were cute; until I started finding myself in situations where I volunteered to cook or babysit some horrific child. When you're known for trying to cook pasta without water and being able to hardly tolerate anyone under the age of 15, lessons are learned fairly quickly.

So how, two weekends ago, I found myself lugging a cooler and 50 pounds of camping gear 1.5 miles from the car to a campsite happened, was clearly the outcome of a complete mental lapse. During my post-Vegas delirium in April, I purchased an "all access camping pass" to an EDM festival called Tomorrowworld in Atlanta, Georgia.

Before the reality of the c-word (camping) hit me, Tomorrowworld was like a sequel to Ultra in my head. Crop tops, straightened hair, crazy makeup, and all of the EDM I could ever hope for were in my future. My fabulous self in my fabulous outfits would float between stages, raving my life away, posing for my next profile pic.

Actual Life: Sweat had unstraightened my hair, stained my dress, and melted my makeup off. I was letting out small sobs disguised as tired gasps lugging my camping gear from the car to the campsite. The hair straighteners, bottles of beauty products, and plethora of shoe options were life's little joke on me as I stared at porter potties and a shed with a few shower spouts. Alex was treking next to me, and staying true to our dynamic, she used her air intake to breath while I used mine to complain.

I managed to pull it together and put on a happy face for Friday night's shows despite the trauma I had gone through earlier in the day. The tents surrounding us were full of bearded men holding totem poles with penises at the top and others who looked as if showering was a once a month occurrence anyways. Everywhere you turned there were boobs, questionable tattoos, and more boobs. Totally my kind of people.

The commentary Alex and I received throughout the weekend was enough to deserve its own blog post, so I will go ahead and summarize. Men calling us "babies" tends to be a theme wherever we go, and Tomorrowworld was no exception. This would be humorous if it were said in a protective brotherly context, but its usually used in a pedophilic sort of way, so that's always good.

It would be natural for you to assume that I am about to embark upon another paragraph of men complimenting us. However, the comment that was directed towards us the most was "smile, are you even having any fun?!"said by some drug addled twitching 30 year old.

The woes of resting bitch face syndrome.

I have battled this disease for many years now, and I think Alex can say the same. A cashier adding a "cheer up, it can't be that bad," as they hand me my receipt is far from abnormal. A typical occurrence when I make a new friend is them telling me they were under the impression that I severely disliked them before our friendship blossomed. I told my soccer coach in high school that if the team was unhappy about how he was running practice, they would come and talk to me about it. He snorted and assured me that the other girls would "shit themselves before trying to talk to you, you look so mean." This being said, genetics have dealt me a difficult hand when it comes to expressing any form of happiness.

By day three of a music festival you are exhausted, your entire body hurts, and pain is permeating your being just as much as the pleasure of being there is. It's like a bear's body in the last month of hibernation- energy is being pooled from whatever internal reserve is left because the normal sources are completely dried out.

We found that it was sometimes easiest to just stand and stare at the light show to give our knees even a five minute break from the bouncing. And you know us, we were wearing combat boots and converses because cute overtakes comfort. I don't think Orthopedic shoes could have saved our joints that weekend.

The encounters would typically start during a calm part of a song when the crowd would take full advantage of a break from the dancing. Some weirdo would still be convulsing and jumping ten times faster than the beat, and we would idly stare because hey, its kind of funny.

 Example:

When the confrontation comes, you realize that your lack of enthusiasm is an actual offense to said person who is confronting you.

"We are all in this together, mann. Relax, feel the music, BE the music. You look like you hate your lifeeeee."

They start gyrating awkwardly while still staring at you, waiting for a response.

"What do you mean, we are happy?" Put smile onto face and force your limbs to move with the beat.

The person starts dancing around you, waiting for you to join into the fun with them. You do so for thirty seconds while expending further energy trying to keep a smile on your face.

After going through this process, your scowl actually ends up ten times worse than it started because you have even less energy that you did when you were standing there contently staring five minutes before. And the process repeats itself with a new over-enthusiastic druggy.

Story of our weekends.

Tomorrowworld ended up being a learning experience on many accounts. I will never step foot into a tent again, but I want it to be known that I am going to declare myself an avid crusader of the hotel industry as opposed to admitting that I am not cut out for the outdoors. 

At moments, I considered asking for some of whatever the weirdos were on, for the sake of being left alone. I then thought better of it after realizing that simple addition is a struggle with my current number of brain cells, so who knows how I would function with even fewer.

Next weekend I am returning to NYC because apparently the smell of garbage permeating the air and homeless people on every street corner is an aura I have become addicted to.

So until next time.

-F

I Went On A Date

There are many types of people in this world. Some are good; some are bad; Some are so uncontroversial you cannot categorize them as good or bad- they are just there.

In regards to the bad- you know those people who will jump at the opportunity to complain about anything and everything? You could dangle a solution right over their heads, and they would choose to ignore it- just so they could continue to complain. The general population tends to be in agreement that these are the worst sorts of people. So I am pleased to announce that I fall into this category.

             I consider the act of complaining to be one of America’s pastimes that I have really developed a passion for. So I really wanted to share this passion with you all. Among my favorite topics are: 

People with trust funds:

I enjoy talking about how if I had a trust fund, there would be no incentive for me to make anything of myself, and therefore I am actually the lucky one. Those poor trust fund children don’t have impending homelessness to spur them into action!

I do not mean this at all. No part of me feels #blessed to not have a trust fund. All I want is a 3 million dollar Malibu condo where I can sit with my 5 dollar Starbucks latte every morning, pretend to write prolific things, but actually tan all day long. After 20 years people will still be inquiring about the novel I have been “writing.” It will be like the Boyhood of novels- a new chapter for every year that passes.

Liz and John I love you, but it is an injustice/possibly a crime against humanity that I do not have a trust fund.

Red Heads:
Having narrowly escaped gingerdom myself, I have a whole slew of theories about our flaming haired counterparts. As most of you know, both of my brothers have red hair. How I escaped the womb with my brown locks is a mystery, but I thank God every day.

I am of the opinion that red heads are genetically inferior creatures. Haven't you noticed they are always the ones with the special allergies? They can't stand in the sun for more than ten minutes without burning, and they are always catching every virus or illness circulating around the school. 

Given my family history with red heads, I have concluded that the only way I can safely escape adulthood without baby carrot tops bobbing around is by marrying someone with darker features. As if catching a husband wasn't already going to be hard enough, now the pool of potentials has been cut by half. Latinos and Italians- I'm ready for ya. Let's eliminate this trait once and for all. 

Couples:

I have been told that the existence of couples in this world does have its benefits. I can’t seem to think of anything good that has come out of a couples’ existence other than myself. But we are all entitled to our own opinions.

Couples bother me for the obvious reasons such as their obnoxious displays of affection and apparent obsession for each other. But the real reason I hate couples is because I cannot look at a couple without conducting a full-scale investigation of their “relationship.” The investigation begins with the obvious- do these people physically look like they belong together, or is someone clearly settling in the appearance department? I then try to dissect their body language in an attempt to figure out if they are actually happy with one another. I want to know how they met, whose cheating, what their dynamic is, and what they see in one another. I even wonder the stupid stuff- what shows do they watch together? Are they sushi people? Or do they prefer lo mein takeout from the dingy place down the street? If they could both buy any car in the world, what cars would they choose? Would they name their child after a birthstone? These are all important things. I complain about couples not because I am single, but because analyzing every pair of people I see is mentally taxing.

Ultimately though, I think my real disdain for couples arguably stems from the fact that divorce is so prevalent in our society. This leads me to believe that 60 percent of all of couples are faking it anyways, so stop flouncing around together on the streets like you are happy with one another in an attempt to make the single feel as if there is something wholesome and beautiful missing from their lives when you are really in a torrential pit of misery and hate one another.  Did that sound contemptuous? It was.

                So speaking of couples, as promised I will give you the highlights of the Hinge date I went on. I went into the experience half hoping the guy would unsuccessfully try and kidnap me. That could have been the beginning of a long and successful career writing Hollywood action movies. But no, my Hinge suitor was disappointingly un-criminal.

We had a 9 o’clock meeting time at a bar in Brooklyn. As the 8:30 departure from my dorm swiftly approached, I started sending out mass text messages, most of which said something along these lines.

I figured that in the off chance I died, the police would at least know where to start. I also felt the need to voice my concerns directly to him, just so that we were on the same page in terms of me thinking he could be a serial killer. 

 Because he too thought I was potentially a psychopath, I figured the coast was clear enough for me to actually attend my Hinge Date.

Unfortunately from here on out the story gets much more dull. There were no stabbings, slave dungeons, or kidnappings. I have yet to write an action piece because the date proved to be well, a date. Anonymous and I remain friends, but I think we agree (both of us write) that it would have been ideal if one of us could have had multiple personality disorder or something just crazy enough to leave the other person alive, but scathed enough to have a fabulous story.

Now that I have returned to Chapel Hill, my Hinge life has come to an abrupt halt. Thus ends my flirtation with online dating, and to be quite honest, dating in general. Do dates exist in Chapel Hill?

So until next time.

-F

My Flirtation With Online Dating

I would like to start this post off by stating that I am about as open to having a boyfriend at this point in my life as China is to reducing their carbon emissions. Call me defensive, but when you are admitting to having an online dating presence, I think disclaimers are more than fair.

It all started when some Jimmy Fallon interns were having a slow day and paid my friend and I a visit at work. The girl had hardly stepped into the office before she blurted "I have a hinge date tonight." Not being from New York, I figured that "hinge" was some kind of event, or maybe even a restaurant and she just wasn't the best at sentence construction?

But no, my friends. Hinge is so much more than that.

Hinge is like the trendy normal version of Tinder. You create a profile based directly off of your Facebook profile, mutual friends, and location. The only people who pop up on your feed are people you have mutual friends with on Facebook. It lists your mutual friends, and there is even an "ask" button so that you can contact the mutual friend directly with an inquiry as to whether your potential suitor is sane, worth that swipe right, etc.

You have a batch of twelve profiles to look at each day, so when the first three guys worked at JP Morgan, ESPN, and Goldman Sachs, I decided Hinge was worth at least a three day trial. And once I hit day three and not a single person had liked me back, I knew I had finally found the dating app for me.

I find that I am interested in so few guys, the feeling of rejection connects me with these people more than anything else. I look at the profile of Tommy P who hasn't liked me back and I think, Tommy I respect you. I deem you worth my time now that you have decided I am not worth yours. Is this what love feels like?

Anyways, a week later we had started an intern office trend. Everyone got their phones out at lunch every day and we all compared notes on our group of guys/girls. Eventually the matches for all of us started rolling in (slow start I guess?) and the array of pick up lines and embarrassing conversations suddenly lit up our lunch hour.

Among my favorite pick up lines (most remained unanswered) are as follows:

1. "I can't figure out how I'm gonna tell my parents how we met."  I made it very easy on him. We didn't meet.
2. "I think we should play rock paper scissors to see who breaks the ice?" Ice is far safer left unbroken, so that comment remains hanging unanswered in the virtual world.
3. "On a scale of 1 to 10 how do you feel about the fact that your parents chose f instead of ph for your name?" I think I am still more focused on the disappointment that ensues when your parents name you after a wild cat.

And then came the day when I made the horrible mistake of giving my number to one of the more seemingly normal Hinge suitors. If anything, Hinge has opened my eyes to the fact that I am a VERY poor judge of character.

At this point I blocked his cell number. Quick tech lesson for everyone, if you block someone's number, they aren't blocked through your computer's iMessage. So this lovely message snuck through a week later. 

Any more guys out there crazy enough to text a girl you've never met 12 times in a row- direct message me and I'll shoot you my number. Just. My. Type.

And want to know the kicker? I went on a Hinge date for the purposes of writing about it.

But I think that story will have to wait for next time. Gotta leave you readers wanting more right?

Until then,

F

I Swear I'm Not Trying To Sleep With You: Part 2

Hahaha like I would ever.

That being said, the numbers are in.

It turns out I swear I'm not trying to sleep with you: part 1 received the second most hits I've ever gotten on a single blog post. The number one spot went to an angry tirade of a post speaking out against a controversial op-ed about Greek life last year. So I've come to some conclusions.

You people judge me for limiting my television choices to the Kardashians and the Bachelorette, however numbers tell me that you want to read about sex and drama way more than my oh so intellectual theories on NBC possibly being the CIA and Facebook stalking. At this rate I'll get thousands of hits just by titling a post "nude photos." You sick people!

Just kidding. I tried to force myself to buy The Economist today, which I figured would have something of minor intellectual merit in it. When I found out it was 8 dollars I threw a fit, told them to cancel it, and proceeded to hand the cashier 12 dollars worth of People and In Touch magazines.

... Yes if you are capable of simple math, that last statement made no sense. But it happened, and therefore I understand your desire to only read the posts of mine that are potentially raunchy or like, super dramatic.

Anyways, back to point. That last post was yes, sad. But that's simply the stress I go through at work. Going out is an entirely different ball game.

So as those of you close to me know, I am the biggest non-groupie DJ groupie there is. Translation: 

For me, living in NYC as an EDM lover is like a pizza loving bulimic girl staying in Italy for two months. The binging is bound to come down upon her hard and fast until she returns home to the sub-par lure of Dominos post Italy. With multiple shows every weekend compared to once a month in NC, you can bet I'll be at as many of them as possible- tiny black dress, in the DJ booth, and all. 

I don't know when the DJ booth crashing thing really started- maybe Australia? But it did, and now a show isn't complete without it. But the second I step into that booth, my overly defensive tendiences have a field day. 

My pictures clearly expose the fact that I walk into clubs wearing about 2 dollars worth of fabric and heels making me even a tall male's equal. But I'd like to note that I am facing an array of bouncers whose only form of power in life is to tell girls that they are too ugly to get into the club that is paying them minimum wage. I've seen it happen many times, and RIP any ounce of dignity or confidence I have the day it happens to me. So a girls gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I put on my little black dress and heels, march into the DJ booth, and that's when the defensive monster within me is unleashed.

I'm usually staring around the club at rich dudes in suits and a mass of girls fighting over said rich dudes in suits. They are all wearing little black dresses like me. So basically to the outside world, I am one of them.

My very presence at the club is an indicator that I am probably, as the Jersey Shorers would say, DTF. As I enter the DJ booth, I'm not only DTF anymore. I've also become one of those status-chasing, needs attention, let me have your kid so I can have child support money kind of girls. (Okay I'm definitely being dramatic, but that's more fun anyways).

The defensive monster inside of me believes that everyone around me is making this assumption. Therefore, my anxious brain has come up with a number of security measures to be carried out upon my entrance to the DJ booth.

1. Use a word with more than 10 letters in it as quickly as possible. The easiest ones are usually stupid, and before you used that >10 letter word, there was a good chance that you were stupid and easy. Now the males in the vicinity aren't so sure.

2. Ask them about what led to their success. Basically conduct an informational interview with either DJ/or Publicist (usually target publicist, who could actually forward on your resume). This is when confusion typically permeates the person's face, but everyone loves talking about themselves so they comply and give me a life story. (At this point the person is probably wondering, why does this girl have more to say than "OMGGG I love this DJ sooo much"... she talks too much).  

3. Try to seem idle and throw in a casual laugh as you say something along the lines of, "yeah the little black dress usually makes people think I'm out to bang the DJ, but hahahah like I would ever. I'm just a fan of X DJ." At this point the person's face usually scrunches up because they don't know whether to point out that you've literally just announced to the world that you aren't going to sleep with anybody- without being asked or even prompted to think anyone is halfway interested, or to just continue the conversation. 

4. Sprinkle in a comment that exhibits your array of EDM knowledge, thus cementing outsiders' perception that- "This girl is here solely due to the devotion to this music." 

4. Defensive monster crawls back into his shell. Enjoy the show.

I think I feel the need to use my security guidelines because I'm truly so obsessed with this music that I want the others in the DJ booth to realize A. that I'm not a brainless party girl just looking to dance around in front of everyone (or bang the DJ) and B. how much not kicking me off stage means. Being up there is pretty much the coolest thing ever.

And maybe this post is part of my defensive monster coming out because I may or may not be worthy of the title "club rat" now that I'm living in NYC. But like the lesson I taught you in the last post- sometimes it's not about who you are, it's about what the outside world thinks of you. So now you know not to judge me on my little black dresses and excessive party photos.

And thus concludes "I swear I'm Not Trying To Sleep With You: Part 2."

Until next time,

F

I Swear I'm Not Trying To Sleep With You: Part 1

Part 1- The Anxiety of Being

To all of my literate friends (so about half of you): you know that passage from a book you've read that seems to stick with you for no apparent reason? Avid readers will have many of these. The not-so-avid will have one passage from a book on the same plane as Thomas the tank Engine- but you still have that one passage. It’s rarely prolific or crucial to the plot line- but for some reason you remember it.

For me, one of those passages is a scene from a book written by David Sedaris. Sedaris is my favorite author because there are different kinds of crazy in this world, and I am under the impression that we are the very same type of crazy.

In this story, Sedaris sets the scene with a physical description of himself: he was 50 years old, unshowered, acutely aware of how creepy he looked, and on that particular day, extra-prone to psychotic episodes due to a lack of sleep. So when he stepped into his hotel elevator and there was only a 4 year old boy in it, logically this sent him into a downwards mental spiral.

Sedaris proceeded to have a 5 page panic attack not unlike the panic attacks I have via this blog because he imagined a scene where the boy stepped into the lobby, pointed at David, and started yelling that he had been touched inappropriately on the elevator ride down. 

You may be questioning why someone would become upset over a scene entirely constructed by their imagination, however I sympathize with Sedaris. Had the kid actually done this, Sedaris's disheveled appearance would have stamped a big old "pedophile" on his forehead to everyone else standing in the lobby. Who would believe creepy looking David over this cute four year old kid?  

Because Sedaris knew that he looked guilty, he then started to feel guilty. The panic he was experiencing was really due to the realization that he would have to go through life looking like a potential creep. It was a major adversity when any four year old at any given time could call fake-sexual harassment.

I think I connected so much with this passage because I too live in a constant state of guilt over things I haven’t actually done. I am on the same page as David- sometimes it’s not about who you actually are to the outside world. It’s about the idea that the outside world has of you.

So maybe I’ve watched 400 too many movies; maybe it’s because the entertainment industry is a bit edgier than the anti-doping internship I did last summer; or maybe it is due to the recent resurfacing of Lewinsky publicity. Either way- I live in a constant state of paranoia that it is assumed I am taking on NYC and prepared to sleep my way to the top.

Some people feel the need to prove their intelligence- As a 21 year old female intern- I feel the need to prove that I’m not trying to seduce my superiors. Is this normal or based off of anything legitimate? Absolutely not. But this is what my brain chooses to stress about on a daily basis. Let me elaborate:

I put my intern badge on, walk into the office filled with a core of 25-35 year old writers/producers, and the paranoia begins. Every time a male in the office walks by, my eyes shoot down towards my feet and I become as turtle-like and awkward as possible. It’s as if the more awkwardness I exude, the more my conscience feels at ease. It is my biggest fear in life that my superiors will think I am trying to sleep with them. 

A hi, I can handle. But if a co-worker wants to have an actual 2-3 sentence long conversation, that’s when I go into full-on meltdown mode. It is a beauty and a curse working around a sea of comedians because there are no conversations; there are simply verbal competitions- who can come up with the wittiest way to convey the message.

If a co-worker engages me in a wit-battle (aka speaks to me at all), I then have to quickly balance the pros and cons of sparring back- “Do I let myself become personable at the risk of seeming flirtatious? Farrell do you even know how to speak without flirting? We really don’t know, so do we risk it?”

Most of the time I just freeze up, laugh, and answer in plain wit-less speak (to which comedian coworker is bummed by the lack of challenge). But on the rare occasion a witty retort pops out, I launch into a 15-minute post conversation inner monologue asking myself things such as, “did I really just tell him to shut up? How many lines did I just cross- 10 or 20? If I were him, would I think that the intern is open to sleeping with me?"

I even walked up to the intern supervisor one day and asked if I was going too far in terms of joking around with everyone. He laughed at me and asked if I had mixed up my office behavior with one of the other interns because I was one of the tamest there.

So my worries may be slightly irrational, however stories always seem to pop up that re-legitimize my fear. For example, a friend of a friend works at a company who wasn't hiring their recently graduated interns at the rate that was expected. It was noted that the girl's shirts got lower and lower towards the end of the internship. 

Well I'll be damned if that's said about me, so despite my seemingly fine behavior, the paranoia lives on. Just as the manager of the restaurant I work for has to prove that he's not a creep, I have to prove that intellect is the only weapon in my arsenal that I will engage when working my way to the top.

All in all, this is simply the stress I go through at work. Going out is an entirely different ball game.

To be continued in Part 2

-F