The Fault in my Stars


Aug. 15, 2018

6:59 a.m.

75 degrees, 98 percent humidity, screeching sirens—a normal day. As always, I check my horoscope before drudging to the bathroom to make myself look presentable for my daily obstacles. They ( say, “you’re only as confident as your outfits.” That is when Venus is in retrograde and my seventh house is open to any in-person interactions.

            Right now, you’re being pushed to take life seriously and mature. Don’t ignore these feelings–they’re forcing you to confront yourself and make decisions about where you’re headed.

7:01 a.m.

Astrology is not something to lightly gloss over—upset the stars and you can end up in a three-year rut. By the end of it you’re just as bitter as a Scorpio, but with thinner eyebrows.

8:13 a.m.

            The stars neglected to remind me about unforeseen challenges this morning—grabbing cups firmly and securing contents before running through the threshold to catch public transport.

10:47 a.m.

            Ding! Your daily horoscope is ready.

Any endeavor you believed to be potentially fantastic may reveal some problems today, Gemini.

Thanks, Daily Horoscope. This reading maybe…hmm…three hours ago would have stopped me from spilling coffee on my favorite BR blouse.

12:15 p.m.

Ding! Check your daily horoscope with Co-Star Astrology!

You’ll be resilient in situations having to do with close relationships. There are many ways to practice intimacy.

2:02 p.m.

            Buzz. A text message floats on screen. The first line of the message doesn’t appear. My rule: no preview, no view. Unknown numbers are a sign in a planetary shift and I am not ready for another mercurial retrograde. My hair is still recovering from deadly amounts of bleach and color the last time Mercury decided to do a 180.

Buzz, buzz. My curiosity outweighs my rationale and astrological guidance.

Hey. It’s me. It’s been a while. What four…five years? I found my old phone and your number. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to message you.

2:05 p.m.

            Mercury must have turned on its heels. I pick up my phone to check it’s plane of orbit. Mercury decided to follow it’s intended path, making this shift in energy more monumental.

2:06 p.m.

            I tap out, “HE’S BACK” and tap send.  I forgot the apostrophe, the stars know what I meant to say. Lack of information trumps grammar when consulting the stars.

2:07 p.m.

No new messages. No alerts from my emotional Aquarius. No objections from my bullheaded Taurus. Not even an “emphasized message” from my fiery Leo.     

2:15 p.m.

Blank screen.

2:17 p.m.

15 minutes is enough time. The perfect balance of I’m busy but not too busy and self-absorbed to respond to an unknown number. It doesn’t indicate he takes precedence over other more important messages.

Hey! Backspace. Exclamation marks are too enthusiastic. Hey, how are you? No. Too clinical. Hey, it’s been a while. Wow. He already said that. Hi. Am I an Aries now?

2:22 p.m.

An angel number, I have to make a wish.

I wish the planets, stars, gods, and goddesses will send a sign. One that I’ll actually adhere to. One with my best interest in mind. Oh, and I wish my dry cleaning bill is less than $20, I don’t get paid until next Friday. Virgo, I’m counting on you.


Guys You’ll Regret Dating in Your 20s



Guys that pregame with Everclear

Have you seen what Everclear does to a cabinet? Takes the paint right off. Don’t believe me, try it. Pour it down a panel and watch paint fall to the kitchen floor in a glob. Everclear does the same thing to the human mind.

A few red solo cups of Jungle Juice and he’ll blab about how hot your roomie is. When you confront, he’ll slip up and mention her gumball breasts. He might even suggest that you try free-boobing like her.

Only after you lose 30 pounds.

Guys that refuse to eat anything that’s not on the kids’ menu

You’re on your first date. Things are going great. He took you to a restaurant that’s not a chain. They don’t offer straws. The decor screams mid-century modern chic. It’s actually kind of cute. Except your date’s face is almost as maroon as the Cabernet Sauvignon in your glass.

When you ask him what’s wrong he says, “This menu is unacceptable. Where are the chicken tenders and fries?”

Guys that never buy sheets

There’s a reason most guys do it with the lights off. If you stick around long enough you’ll wake up in the middle of the night grasping for some source of warmth. Reaching into the nighttime abyss the only thing your hands find are his leg hairs.

What you thought were sheets were piles of t-shirts arranged to mimic human decency.

Guys that are self-proclaimed hypebeasts

He bought a Supreme shirt on your trip to NYC because everyone has to know he was in the “the city.” As if his slew of New York City, New York tagged IG posts and story didn’t suffice. His box logo shirt is turning yellow around the pits. After only five days in the city, he incorporates “deadass” into every sentence.

Guys with no real skills outside of their mechanical engineering degree

You’re on a road trip in his dropped Subaru. The subwoofer is rattling every molecule of your brain. The unrelenting scraping of the bottom of his car sounds like your gynecologist wheeling his chair over for a pap smear.

The tire blows. It’s 115 degrees in Albuquerque.

Instead of simply changing the tire. He has to tell you every bolt, nut, screw, hole, ribbed and stripped part of the tire. When the AC goes out he finally agrees to call AAA.

I was a hypbeast for all of 5 minutes

Literally Gagging

If you know, you know. Supreme’s drops are almost top secret—its the black market of streetwear. You log in and have less than 30 seconds to scoop up all the merch that you want to resell to make rent.

I’ve tried this on two separate occasions. One, not so seriously while on break. The other, moments ago when the new collection dropped.

I usually don’t get nervous, especially not when it comes to shopping. Somehow logging on to Supreme on my phone and computer made me feel like I snorted two lines of coke and took a hit of meth.

Yes, it’s that intense.

I’ve been counting this day, since last night, when something reminded me I needed to get on Supreme’s site. I’m so glad I did. I saw a green suit circa Ray Liotta in Goodfellas and a monogram fur coat in the likeness of Frank Lucas.

I didn’t get either. One, I couldn’t afford them on a college student salary. Two, the site reloads as soon as merch drops and your entire game plan is thrown off. Three, my billing and shipping address aren’t the same. A blessing and a curse—Supreme tries to cut down on the use of bots and resellers with this feature. Obviously, it’s not working.

So who cares that I didn’t get a Supreme coat. Some 14 years old in Topeka, KS that copped it, is going to resell it for almost three times the list price. Let’s just call this 14-year-old Stewy—fitting for a little twerp that stole my dream coat.

This is all theory speaking. So Stewy is theoretically 5’1″ with a bird chest. A men’s XL won’t fit him (It won’t fit me either but I can use it for boudoir shots. Stewy cannot, he’s underage.)  Stewy waits a week for this coat to get there and leaves it in the bag. He snaps a few photos and lists this deadstock condition coat for $800-$1000, twice…almost three times the original selling price.

This is great for Stewy—he can buy all the PS4 games his teenage heart desires, or if he’s smart, save for college. Stewy’s probably not smart.

In a 1970s Woodstock way, some would see this as “sticking it to the man.” Supreme’s not the man. The man in the capitalistic society that creates this urge for demand with fractions of our population having access to purchase these goods.

Supreme was created as a way to express rebelling against society, all of what real skate culture embodies. Posers, myself included, have been swept up by the “hype” surrounding this brand and rely on those few minutes between seeing new merch flash across the screen and hitting the “process payment” button.

All of which I did four times in less than ten minutes. If the coat randomly appears on my doorstep instead of Stewy’s all’s well. If not, oh well. Maybe Chad in LA can buy it from Stewy’s depop and wear it to LA Fashion Week while wearing misconstrued cornrows that look like cornhusks and posing with the Kanye.