on my resume: t-shirt designer

dear marc,

i was rifling through my notebook that i carry EVERYWHERE to write down ideas/make lists of things i’m supposed to do when i’m not so drunk, when i stumbled upon a page that had “SHIRTS” written at the top, and bunch of random words scribbled below it. at first i was all, “what the fuck are these from?” and THEN i was totally like, “OMG I SHOULD DESIGN SHIRTS FOR MARC.” wouldn’t that be great? a typical day would be like this:

MARC: matt, i need see your designs for those MbMJ shirts THAT I ASKED YOU FOR TWO DAYS AGO.

MATT: the ones you’re going to sell and give the profits to a charity or whatever?

MARC: YES.

MATT: well, here’s what i have so far…it’s super sketchy and whatever but…

MATT: what do you think?

MARC: i think your ability to offend all walks of life is uncanny.  and i think you should leave.

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style icon: rocky horror partygoers

dear marc,

the Oscars are tonight; are you attending? were you invited? i wasn’t (fuckers) BUT THIS IS WHAT I WOULD TOTALLY WEAR IF I WAS:

AAHHHHHH. do you die? i’m fucking dead. i love their little, shrunken tuxedo jackets! i’ve always wanted to be one of the party people from Rocky Horror Picture Show because they’re so FUN. i would constantly be having FUN and worried about ripping my second-skin satin skinnytrousers:

those are TIGHT, literally and figuratively. i know that if i was at the oscars, they would seat me next to natalie portman and she would be like, “i’m loving your pants, but i couldn’t fit into those because i’m SO HEAVILY PREGNANT RIGHT NOW,” and i’d be all, “GIRL, shut it. yes you can. these pants can work on ANYONE”:

see? that fat fucker not only FITS in the pants, but his legs seem so long and bendy that he could be Gumby’s gay cousin on a coke binge–aka PERFECTION. he’s a god.

too bad i can’t afford to look so FUN all the time. i guess you should hire me and give me a generous clothing allowance so i have an excuse to attend the ‘scars with NatNat.

xo

marc, introduce me to: sienna miller

dear marc,

do you think you could introduce me to Sienna Miller when you hire me?  i think we would be the greatest of frenemies.  when i was in london, i saw her at the premiere of Interview, and even though it was Steve Buscemi’s name that i screamed on the sidelines of the red carpet, i still thought she was adooooorable. she was all poor-postured and weak-ankled and just kept smiling at everything in her slinky silk frock. and i love how the paps are always kind of, sometimes all over her and she’s like, “you guys! come on.” this would totally be us:

SIENNA: MATTY, what did you think of the new twenty8twelve show?

MATT: i thought it was GREAT, SeeSee. i was so happy to see that you’ve continued to make that bleach-splattered denim vest that made the line great in the first place.  i love the idea of paying $150 for something i can probably find at goodwill, without all the risk of it not fitting. or the excitement of finding something on my own.

SIENNA: you cheeky BITCH.

MATT: i’m KIDDING, baby.  really, i think you’re wonderful. hey, say a line from GI JOE.

SIENNA: no.

MATT: baby, PLEASE?

SIENNA: well…alright.

MATT: AHHHHHHH!

SIENNA: “get out. GET OUT. (beat) nice shoes.”

MATT: OMG THAT’S MY FAVORITE LINE.

SIENNA: I KNEW.

MATT: we’re so fun.

SIENNA: one of us is.

MATT: gasp!

SIENNA: let’s have champers and blow for lunch!

so will you? of COURSE you will, you treasure. and you’ll get so much press when we’re arrested for being fun, and the only statement we’ll give to the press is, “MARC JACOBS.”

drunken plea of the (last) week

an english translation, in case you don’t speak sad, drunk homo (but why wouldn’t you, marc? we’ve all been there.):

Dear Marc,

I just told someone who is diabetic that they’re bulimic.  I’m sorry.

It’s so late and people are talking about babies and this pen is wet and THIS PEN IS SOAKING WET and oh my Ghod, it’s so hot in here and I just want my pizza but i swear Katie is hoarding it. Marc, I love my friends but I have to get out of here.

It’s so hot. We went to a party and I was the only one dressed as a boy. Marc, hire me so I can go to parties where I’m the pretty one. Hire me so if I’m not the pretty one, at least I’m the funny one; or at least the original one. There’s pizza here now. The second piece isn’t as big as the first, which is disappointing.

I love you,

Matt

boys who dress like girls who dress like boys

dear marc,

i was standing in line at the bank to deposit some funds (so that check i wrote to my mom doesn’t bounce my account into overdraftville), when something happened to me that hasn’t happened since…last week?  if it were a short film about mistaken identity and the malaise of being poor and 25, the screenplay would read like this:

INT. BANK—EARLY AFTERNOON

MATT stands in line behind OLD LADY, who is talking to BANKTELLER.  he is disheveled, but the kind of disheveled that says, “i’m too knowledgeable about fashion to care what i look like right now.  or ever.”

OLD LADY AT THE COUNTER

blah blah blah my son’s girlfriend didn’t even send me a thank-you note for the gifts blah blah blah.

BANKTELLER

the NERVE.  let me just take care of her and then i’ll let you finish talk at me.

matt roles his eyes and trudges up to the counter.  the transaction is awkward.

FADE TO BLACK

did you see that?  the bankteller said HER.  let me just take care of HER.   normally i would make a giant deal out of the whole thing, but I’ve finally realized that i will forever be a “her” in some peoples’ eyes. i can’t help that I naturally dress like mary-kate olsen and that I’m CURSED with these pouting lips and long lashes.  i also can’t change the fact that girls dress in boys clothes all the time, so now anyone on the street in a long button-up flannel and skinny jeans could be Vanessa Hudgens or whatever piece of jailbait is cool these days. anyway, i know i’m a boy, my friends know i’m a boy (i think), and that’s all that really matters, i guess.

so for every boy that’s been mistakenly called “miss,” “her,” or “that chick with the glasses,” i salute you.  to every guy that’s been dancing with his friend when he suddenly feels someone grinding on his assbone and turns around to discover that it’s a lipstick lesbo who thinks you could be the Ellen to her Portia, i say, pop the booty.  don’t feel bad for liking your shirts long and your pants skintight.  boys who dress like girls who dress like boys are PEOPLE, too.

dance on, my brothers.  dance on.

Spread the love, marc.

on my resume: tweeter

dear marc,

wouldn’t it be great if you hired me to tweet about things?  i mean, i’m clearly super experienced:

look!  it only took me two posts to get the hang of it.

you could give me some grand title, like “head of twat development” or “executive vice president in charge of short, neurotic sentences.”  i think it could totally work, and would go something like this:

MARC:  matt, i’m going to need less boob-tweeting and more fall line-tweeting.

MATT: sorry, mr. jacobs.

MARC: MATTHEW.

MATT: sorry.

MARC: and would it kill you to wear a tie?  this is a place of business.

match made in heaven? PROBABLY. think about it.

xo

update on greg the mouse

dear marc,

it’s been almost forty-five minutes since greg, the mouse that’s been haunting Grey Gardens, decided to wander into our kitchen and literally sit in front of the peanut butter-filled, neck-snapping trap we put out for him.  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, marc.

in that time i have quietly and carefully been able to do the following things:

get a text from my landlady saying that i’m late on rent.

text jenn and tell her that greg is here.

ask my mother to loan me rent money.

take a call from jenn and explain, through whisper screaming, that greg the mouse is here and that i’m TERRIFIED and she needs to come home IMMEDIATELY.

look up flights for my move to seattle.

ponder the results of just taking a knife and stabbing greg.

write a check for rent money and then tiptoe it out to my landlady’s mailbox with a nerve-calming cig in my hand.

i could piss, i’m so terrified of greg.  it’s not that he’s going to hurt me, i know that.  i just don’t like the idea of something INVADING MY SPACE and potentially SCURRYING OVER MY FOOT when i’m not looking.

none of this would be happening if you just gave me a job, marc.  i’m not saying there won’t be mice when you move me to new york or wherever, i’m just saying that i won’t have to be here to watch them toy with me.  and if i DO happen to be at home when that happens, at least i’ll be able to afford enough alcohol to ignore the situation.

GET ME OUT OF HERE.

update: greg went INTO the trap, then got OUT of the trap.  he seemed confused, so while he was walking i away i put this over him:

THIS ISN’T FUNNY ANYMORE MARC.  WE COULD HAVE PUT FLOWERS IN THAT JAMESON TIN.