As Beyonce knows some things are meant to be kept secret and as I know other things become secret by default because they're restricted to an iPad application nobody wants to pay for.
Since September I've been making monthly videos to go along my monthly Action! column for Wired Italy, though I'm sure most of y'all don't know that since the column has always been in print (in Italy and Italian) and the videos are on the iPad application even I don't have.
Anywhoo after pleading the Wired dudes have finally agreed to start showing my old videos on their website and here's the first.
You may not understand the Italian but fart sounds are a universal language.
PS: I've been in NYC almost a week and I'm not famous yet what gives?
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Saturday, January 11, 2014
I'm back online with a new article for VICE Italy, here's the english version:
“You can’t outsmart life,” my ex says at dinner. He and his friend got babies and insist I will, too. “You don’t control your destiny.” If there’s one thing I control, it’s my body. The weather’s freezing but I’m nearly naked because admiration keeps me warmer than fur. And I’m starving but ignoring my salad so I can get wasted. “Most women can’t fight for a lifestyle and men stand for nothing so they let mistakes determine their future. But I’ve got a plan, and it’s all me.” I declare, pouring too much vinegar on my food so I won’t be tempted by it. “That’s what all girls say, see you in ten years, mom!”
Why must men insist on ruining my buzz with their midlife crises? When the old ones can no longer use your body as a means to escape their reality they try to drag you down with them. I stumble to the bathroom to stare in the mirror for ten minutes and promise my reflection to do whatever I can to prove them wrong. And to invest in anti-wrinkle cream because I turn twenty-five in the morning.
“You look ready for rape,” another ex greets me. He’s charming as ever, meanwhile my crush is avoiding me, the girl I’m here for disappeared with him and I have an exam in the morning. I’ll outsmart life, starting with this dinner. I escape, call a cab and study until daylight. Despite everyone I feel invincible and ready to conquer my next year as a brave, ruthless vixen! (If I pass Art History).
Are you taking control in 2014? Is your first resolution to stop drinking, as soon as you finish the bottles leftover from the NYE party you threw and nobody came to? Second, to find more reliable friends? Third, you’re buying new running shoes online this instant! You know which workout to do at the gym you can’t afford a membership to, since you spent all your money at Nike. Fifth resolution, be responsible with finances. Good for you. But if the shoes don’t fit you can be a hypocrite. Take it from me, it isn’t so bad if it happens slowly. I’m twenty-six now, and I can say I’ve kept one of the promises from that mirror at dinner: my skin is flawless.
“In order to reach my potential, I must remain single. I’ve dedicated my life to empowering girls. I will continue to ruin my reputation and therefore any chance of a relationship for their sake. I’ll work hard to become rich and famous enough to help them. That’s all I care about.” A boy asked about my goals as a feminist and I’m telling him, yelling, slamming my fists and making him uncomfortable, or so I thought. Maybe not, or now he wouldn’t be my husband.
If you must know, the wedding was in Malibu. A small reception, like Hole’s music video, with less nipples and more moms. I kept it secret, like Beyoncé’s album. For the record, my hair was perfect. My only regret is having deprived y’all from my prep tips, like how to lose ten pounds in two days (laxatives), which dresses hide Writer’s Ass (I’ll explain later), what to do if your period arrives on The Big Day (cancel the ceremony) and which mascara is best for crying (Lancôme).
Wait, didn’t I write an article against marriage, declaring it useless and anti-feminist? Yes, I also wrote about how shitty New York is and now I’ve moved here. So? I know the only creative people making it are selling their asses to do so, but it’s the only place I can sign my name on the Fame Waiting List and get invited to Lena Dunham’s pizza parties. When did my hypocrisy start? Probably when I resolved to be more slutty in 2013, only to end up in the most important monogamous relationship of my life.
I thought San Francisco was a great idea. I moved across the street from the Armory where Kink.com porn is filmed and as that was my favorite site, I considered it a sign. But when I went inside it was Eyes Wide Shut if the cloaks were replaced with furry hats, the models swapped with Twitter Execs and Tom Cruise couldn’t stop dropping “Burning Man.” That was just foreshadowing. Everyone in town was so sloppy my style slowly deteriorated from Mafia Mistress on Holiday to Librarian on Laundry Day. Meanwhile, the little cash I had was sucked into the pockets of homeless crack heads and my self-esteem flew out the window.
I took three months off from my blogs and this column to write a book, an experience I don’t wish on anyone. Someone once joked that authors are writers too ugly for television. But what came first, the ugly or the process? I spent most days crusted in soy sauce, showering only to change into different pajamas, developing what I call Writer’s Ass, a pancake between your legs and back, as a result of constant sitting. I mourned my butt and missed my blogs. Not getting immediate feedback I’m used to online, I felt in the dark, unappreciated and totally irrelevant, probably like the other members of Destiny’s Child did.
Speaking of pop stars, comparing yourself to them is an easy way to track your own progress. Beyoncé sings, “I took some time to live my life, don’t think I’m just his little wife” so we’re on the same page. Britney’s making a comeback in Vegas, and I feel her. We both must reclaim what we own, remind our fans why they love it (hence all the links before, you’re welcome) and knock down whoever’s gotten in our way since. It’s hard to do, if you’ve changed. Like Gaga, I’ve been wearing comfortable shoes and getting too close to nature. She once proclaimed she’d rather die than let her fans see her in flats, and now she’s barefoot. If you can’t practice what you preach, who are you?
The difference between being single and having a boyfriend is when you’re at a bar you don’t spend the whole time looking around desperately for a dick to sit on and can focus on drinking instead. The difference between that and being married is you don’t go to the bar, you ask your husband to bring a glass with ice in it because the bottle’s already in bed with you. What I’m saying is, you can’t outsmart life, but if you’re smart you can keep the right parts about yourself alive regardless.
PS: No, I’m not pregnant. But if I ever am I’ll drink for two.