you can’t start a party without a PA

me: they want you to what
girlfriend: it doesn’t necessarily have to be me.
me: but you, uh
girlfriend: yes, my roommates and i have decided that we want collectively to raise a child.
me:
girlfriend: it will be called “the apartment baby.”
me: ggraarg
girlfriend: and it is true that the consensus is that i should be the one getting pregnant.
me: zneeeggrg
girlfriend: much of this evening, moreover, has been blocked off for the perusal and purchase with your money of the most delicate gossamer dresses in all of new york.
actual girlfriend reading over shoulder: STOP TYPING LIES
actual girlfriend reading over shoulder: NONE OF THAT IS ACTUALLY A THING THAT I HAVE SAID
actual girlfriend reading over shoulder: NOW PLEASE TO READ YOUR CREDIT CARD NUMBER

the last thing one needs, when one has been logging ridiculous hours as a production assistant for an in-demand company during New York Fashion Week, is the fear that one’s girlfriend is intending to become pregnant. then again, maybe this could have been anticipated—the girlfriend knows full well that these days, while ferrying objects to and fro, muscles abulge, i am surrounded by models. what better way to prevent dalliance/fleeing than by becoming pregnant? what better way to make fashion models less appealing than by growing a living thing in one’s stomach and periodically demanding tapenade and pickles? and getting all cranky and puffy? i would continue this line of thought, but i am sort of being strangled by someone.

here is the thing: models are already unappealing. they are incredibly unappealing. i am not just saying this. their bodies are bizarre, they generally have these scrunched-up androgynous ferrety faces, and the way they walk gives me an inverse boner, which is to say, a boner that is beating so hasty a retreat that it is gashing my lower intestine. how is the modern fashion model—an elongated, starving, bug-eyed hell-child—a standard of beauty in any kind of culture? except an ironic one? i have difficulty accepting that high fashion is not a joke. it is a joke, moreover, that takes many forms.

me, lurking near breakfast spread: are you kidding me, america?
another production assistant: yee
me: how in the fuck do they make bagels this small? look how small this bagel is.
apa: c’mon
me: it just means you have to eat like twenty bagels! who in the fuckshit could eat just one of these? and call it a meal?
nearby model, gazing hungrily into the middle distance:
me: it’s essentially a cheerio.
apa: bizness
nearby model: does anyone want half of my bagel.

production work, however, is fun. at one point i worked from 8am to 4am and then 7am to midnight, and by the end of that i was communicating to my coworkers mostly by meowing. speaking of meowing, the cat apparently just had an erection while licking his own, um, butt, which had two biggish clumps of excrement hanging from it.

so i guess my life is not as exciting as his.

i have to go throw up now.