“Algorithms that dating sites have spent millions of dollars to refine aren’t necessarily bad. They’re just not as good as we want them to be, because they’re computing our half-truths and aspirational wishes.”—Amy Webb, Data: A Love Story
i just read portions for silver foxes, and i have to say AMEN. your writing is REAL and raw. unfortunately, thought catalogue has become a cesspool of idealized stupidity catered to 13 year olds. there needs to be real writing on what it truly means to be young and living in New York--especially living out some idealized dream that has honestly fallen to crap. i loved your piece because as i was slightly inebriated and pining over an old love, i was reminded that shit happens, and its ok. rockon
nice comments like these remind me it’s okay to write stuff that gets you hatemail <3
I appreciate when stuff like this pops up, especially as I’m battling my baseline level of crippling insecurity about my ‘work’.
I’m feeling verbose, so I’ll explain: after my last post on Thought Catalog—and the response it received, let’s not be coy—I’ve been thinking: is what I’m doing is a distraction - or worse yet - bullshit?
I’ve seen a lot of posts about internet ethics; the importance of keeping your business to yourself, of not sharing texts & emails for others to see and, often, mock.
Does that make these experiences I’ve screencapped, rehashed and repackaged shitty? And the inevitable and infinitely bigger question: does that make me shitty?
What I want to do is write, but I don’t know how to find the time & energy. I suffer unnecessarily due to perfectionism; if I can’t do it well, I’d rather not do it at all. How do you balance art with work, human bonds, adequate sleep, eating right, and exercise? When I think of balance, it’s between two things — not six.
I have loved the internet intensely since I was very young, but I feel trapped by it as well. There’s a wave of inertia caused by tying my writing, professional prowess, intellectual growth and overall assessment of Self to the internet.
This probably makes it sound like I’m having an existential crisis, but I’m not. (Probably.)
Next to my bed there’s between five and fifteen drafts of stories I thought I wanted to tell, printed out and scribbled on when I still felt intensely about them. In varying stages of completion, I keep finding reasons to put them aside.
I want to wrap each tale up perfectly, to explain myself in a way that I won’t find me lumped in with the rest of the 20-somethings writing about youthful excess and inconsideration.
Blame it on watching Salinger, but I’ve been thinking about everyone’s favorite (dead) literary genius-recluse a lot lately. When I read Catcher in the Rye, the world Salinger created was certainly real, or so it felt.
From the average sullen teen to Lee Harvey Oswald and Mark Chapman, people identified with Holden because Salinger’s clarity and command of language.
I don’t know if I possess the linguistic certainty and direction needed to get across the underlying humor I see in all of these experiences.
So that’s what I’ve been struggling with in 2013: actualizing my Salinger. Writing my magnum opus, and if not that, then at least a piece de resistance to hold me over until the opus is ready to come.
I need to write something I can be proud of. I just don’t know if this is it.
Working too much & writing too little. I am struggling with the balance between the two — the ‘drafts’ folder on my laptop remains full, bits & bytes of stories not yet ready but practically begging me to finish them.
I tweet more than I should, but plan to get back to business by the end of October.
I have a male roommate. He pees and doesn't flush and doesn't wash his hands. How do I tell him this is gross and don't dare go digging through our refrigerator and cabinets with his unclean hands?
Whatever you do, don’t leave a note. Honestly just talk to him like you would about toilet paper or needing hand soap or not leaving dirty socks in the living room. Keep it calm, don’t act like a basket case (‘cause he will tell his friends about this convo—trust) and don’t act like his mother.
"Hey Roommate! What you do in the bathroom is your business but it’s pretty obvious when you don’t flush or wash your hands and then… go in the fridge. Could you please not do that? Here’s a beer! I still think you’re great! Thanks!"
You can then give him a high five, if you’re feeling adventurous. (If your roommate cannot be bribed with beer, try Cheetos, joints and print-outs of Rihanna’s topless photos.)
Hey, I think you're my new person to stalk. Like writing wise. I am very impressed with all your writing. I don't think you should shorten your stuff for Thought Catalogue. It's nice to get a break from the '10 people you should..' articles and really get into a story. Good luck with all your writing and I'm surprised you don't have more twitter followers! I just started following ya. Sending love from Australia. Fliction
Thank you for all those compliments, and for only write-stalking me instead of the other kind. (Because really getting stalked totally sucks.)
I know people have commented on some of my stories on Thought Catalog saying they wished they were shorter, but the kind editors over at TC don’t seem to mind my long-windedness… or if they do, they never say anything to me, which is just as well.
I am also shocked more people aren’t lining up to read my 140-character witticisms. Anyone interested in doing so, however, can find me at: @nosexcity
Artie was a fan of my writing before he became my friend, though “friend” isn’t really the right word. He seemed normal enough at the outset, “aspiring internet tastemaker” thing aside. He did it well enough to accumulate followers and bylines at over-hyped web publications. More importantly, he was getting paid for it — though who knows how much. Between whip-smart observations, he served up biting social commentary; I was so intrigued by his brevity and wit. I should’ve known things were going to get weird.
We Tweeted, corresponded by email, G-chatted and, after exchanging a fair number of texts, I agreed to meet up with him one night – I didn’t see any reason not to – I was bored and there wasn’t anything else going on.
He suggested I meet him for a drink in SoHo; a curious offer on his part, given he didn’t know what I looked like.
I sort of barely know you. As in I know you read my blog and comment on it sometimes, and I think you've tweeted me before. I like your writing. I need a favor. Maybe. I did something really bad (sexually) and for various reasons can't talk to a single soul that I know. I thought maybe the internet could give me a non-judgmental, trustworthy stranger who wouldn't ever use it against me. Can I talk to you?
Everyone loves a good dirty story – the sales figures for the, ahem, “erotic” monstrosity that is Fifty Shades of Grey can attest to that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the Second Coming of Bodice-Rippers, though in this century I suppose our heroines are more likely to shed crop-tops and skater skirts than intricately-laced underthings fashioned from whale bones.
The only concern I have about this raunchiness renaissance is that writers, especially those of the confessional variety, will be so swept up in their attempts to pen porn for the ‘Bon Iver and Beards’ generation that they’ll neglect the Nine Tenets of SlutLit.
Ensnared by the sleazebag charm of Tony—minor blogstar and middle-aged skateboarder—the sharp-but-hopeful Claire Mott invokes her wiles to accelerate digital flirting to a proper amorous undertaking, all the while unwilling to fully admit that she may be the one being led, a coquette pup drawn into the den of a deliciously terrible Silver Fox. What unfolded later became fodder for Claire’s first piece of SlutLit; a modern Aesop’s fable with a singular moral: just because you can fuck your way into something, doesn’t necessarily mean you can fuck your way out.
While I had anticipated the dog days of summer before moving to the East Coast, nobody warned me about the two things that drive everyone but the tourists out of the city: unrelenting humidity and cruel nightly temperatures barely cooler than the daytime highs. I didn’t understand how serious the situation would be until I spent my first sweltering July in an apartment without air-conditioning. After that initial summer, I swore the next year would be different. And, for the first two months, it was.