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

drunken plea of the week

fashion week

dear marc,

i forgot that fashion week started yesterday.  maybe it’s because i was too busy dealing with this:

 

i hope you’re having fun.

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.

i bought your cologne but i’m not getting Banged.

dear marc,

i don’t want to come off as a total gwyneth paltrow, but i’ve been meaning to offer you some constructive criticism: i bought your cologne, Bang, over a month ago and i have yet to get Banged. let’s set aside the fact that i spend most of my days in bed watching ‘buffy the vampire slayer’ on netflix (does sarah michelle gellar even KNOW what a bra is?), eating peanut butter sandwiches and not showering. i spray that shit on my giant sleeping shirt every day, and god damnit i want to get LAID, man. i want some to totally mess me up. i want to be rolling around in gold tinfoil, my naked, rippling muscles glistening in the harsh light of some lower east side studio while a bunch of attractive, but ‘serious-about-fashion’ interns bring me cigarettes and jameson.

i know i have some things to overcome–body fat and possible self-induced agoraphobia among them–but i don’t think you should make promises in your ads that can’t be easily attained. but i’ll continue to spray your spicy, woodsy scent until someone finds me attractive enough to make me look like the Bang bottle, which is to say, tore up.

the last vestige of cool

dear marc,

i’m sitting on my bed (that has no sheets), in the dark, making a mix called “the good times,” which consists of nothing but songs by lisa loeb, jewel, and the cranberries (my holy trinity).  if this isn’t a desperate cry for help, i don’t know what is.

get me out of here and into a life that involves more velvet garments.

so cold, so CHIC

dear marc,

my mother informed me yesterday that the Midwest was about to be plunged into an icy hellhole.  but because i only check the weather when i need to know if it’s time to wear my formal shorts outside, i didn’t believe her until she texted me today and said, “THE WORST IS YET TO COME.”  so, as any well-adjusted 20-something would do, i went out and bought some supplies to get me through this battle with mother nature’s frigid cooze:

that’s right, marc, i drove for 90 minutes through hellish weather to get

2 bottles of wine

rat poison (because grey gardens has become INFESTED by two mice we’ve named dharma and greg)

raisin bran (fickle bowels)

marmite (I’m on the rag and I have serious cravings)

parliaments

the first season of Melrose Place (okay, you caught me—I already had that)

and what will i be wearing as i stumble drunkenly to the bathroom for a cig and a poop, wondering if sidney is EVER going to grow up and make jane proud?

because nothing screams, “lick my taint, mother nature,” like a mary-kate flannel paired with harem pants and sweater-blanket shawl.

pray for my frosty soul while you think of ways TO GET ME OUT OF HERE.

trapped in grey gardens

Dear Marc,

Help me.  I woke up yesterday and realized that I’m living in Grey Gardens.  I’ve got shit piled up everywhere and I spend my days wrapped up in a cable-knit sweater blanket, singing to myself, longing to get out of my self-made hell.  Marc, I need change.  I need you to be the Jackie O to my Little Edie.  INVEST IN THIS MESS.

That image my sadden and horrify you, but I think our kitchen is the worst part:

I know, we should start calling it Smellrose Place or something, but, in defense of me and Big Edie (my roommate, Jenn), the following are true:

1. We come from single-child families, and when we were younger our mothers cleaned up after us, so it’s not a stretch to believe that, because our lack of responsibilies during our youths, we would grow up to become slobs.  YES, I’M PLAYING THE BLAME GAME AND YES, I’M WINNING.
2. It’s COLD OUTSIDE, Marc.  AND our trashcans are like 100 feet away and we don’t want to walk through the snow AND through the creepy alley behind our house to get to the trashcans THAT MIGHT NOT EVEN BE OURS.  We don’t even know if we HAVE a designated trashcan.  Do I have to remind you of what Little Edie said about winter? “Very depressing, you know, when winter sets in.  Any little rat’s nest in New York, any little rathole even on 10th Avenue I would like better.”
3. YES, I could take out the trash during the day because I’m unemployed, but then how would I have time/energy to find obscure movies on Netflix?  EXACTLY.
4. We’re just two singles ladies who don’t have anyone to clean for.  And we drink a LOT, so…
5. That’s not our Coca-Cola chair, so don’t judge (although it does prove what a mismatched shitshack we live in).

GET ME OUT OF HERE, MARC. Save me before Jenn dies of consumption and I throw a towel on my head and start feeding cat chow to the raccoons in the attic (is that racist?).

Faithfully Yours,

Matt

ZOE-BABY

OH MY GOD MARC—

how THINNY IS OUR ZOE LOOKING THESE DAYS????

it’s like someone plucked a hair from zeus’ head, slapped some eyeliner on it and called it ZOE, goddess of body dysmorphia. i’m so jealous of her whisper-thinnery.

xo

mary-kate-o-ween

dear marc,

halloween was a whirlwind. i haven’t found any pictures to back up my claims yet, so here are some haikus to give you a taste of what happened.

halloween:

the wig was too much

it started to frighten folks

so became hair belt

mary-kate’s flannel

proved too short to cover bits

i made lots of friends

only this group would

end up in a dance-sex pile

all bruised and blue-balled tomorrow

the next day…

serial killers

we found a mutual love

and will mimic them

katie loves football

matt and jordan watch lifetime

of course, conflict came

 

as soon as i find some pictures, i’ll elaborate.

xo