it was a shitbox

dear marc,

WELL, it seems i’m no longer a struggling model trying to make a name for herself. I HAVE A JOB at reiss, a fashionable clothing store for the up-and-coming young man or lady. and i swear to god i’m keeping it this time. and really i did it on my own merits, with no help from you, so thank you for being an asshole, you fuckface twat. or maybe it was because of you? henry DID say he interned at marc by marc jacobs when he was in school… okay, sorry for yelling at you. i understand now that he actually called you up and was like, ‘marc, this guy? what do i do? cheers bye.’ and clearly you said one thing, ‘fabulous’ and i got the job. well i didn’t just GET the job, there was a 4 hour challenge of body, mind, and fierceness involved which i totally owned. honestly, if 10 more people had been around doing the same thing, it would have been a reality TV show where the person who could pick out the best outfits and re-organize the suit department the fastest would get to be king/queen of stylists for a day, or something gay like that. god that sounds really gay. so gay. i CLEARLY would have been that guy in corner screaming like a bitch just because i could. but of course, you already knew all this, marc. so gay.
and i guess you don’t really have to hire me now until february when you start promoting your spring line. it’s probably for the best because i haven’t really been on my A-game lately. case in point: 

like, seriously? what is this, faggot of the opera? just terrible. i’m so sorry, marc. i’m so sorry. you do have to admit that my pout is FEROCIOUS and those lips are so puffy, like i just had collagen hosed into them. maybe it’s not the worst picture. god i’m creaming just looking at those lips again.
i have to go, i’m only allowed to wear black for the next 3 weeks so i need to find some stuff.
oh PS apparently someone famous took our picture last night at the CSS concert? i don’t know, he’s some british TV presenter. all i’m really getting at is that i’m above everyone else now.

meesh meesh

dear marc,

if you’re looking for mischa barton, i found her tonight in east ghetto land. she was with two girls. they asked us for directions and CLEARLY we had no idea where they wanted to go because our broke-down asses were also lost. then david says, ‘hi mischa!’ so i look up and see her giggling and being kind of a wrecked mess. she was wearing that same outfit she’s been wearing for about a month. you know the one, the big black hat and white man shirt with a tie. marc, tell mischa no one’s buying what she’s selling in that.
still no job.
still no lovers.
still no photoshoot.

fudge addiction

so i’m sitting in the living room watching the same 2 episodes of the rachel zoe project over and over again  and trying to figure out a way to get david to sing shania twain songs to me (i’ve recently discovered that he knows all of her songs?  FAG.) when i suddenly thought, ‘MATT. get up and DO something.  put down that fudge you stole from maggie (you don’t want to look like cameron manheim AGAIN) and DO SOMETHING.’ so i finished the fudge (obviously) and then took a shower, because i haven’t technically showered since thursday…

anyway, now i’m re-vamping my CV to send to magazines.  my plan is to get a really great internship (even if it’s unpaid) then work on the weekends/at night to make enough money to live/be fabulous (drink).
goals for the week:
find a stupid job at a pub or something.
find a FIERCE internship.
FIGURE OUT THIS HOSTEL DEAL.  i need to get OUT of little pakistan and into a yuppie hood where i belong.
smoke a cig with kate moss.
okay, maybe a little fudge.