What up, sluts?
Today I'm in Pittsburgh, PA.
Pittsburgh effing rules.
There are lots of butch dykes here. And now that it's construction season, they're back out on the streets.
However, am I out enjoying the bounty of an early diesel-dyke harvest?
No, I am not.
Instead, I am curled up in a fluffy Sheraton down comforter, listening to it rain and giggling myself to fucking death over my new phone app.
It's an app that translates what you say into any language in the world.
I've been saying shit like, "I find you terribly attractive, but I have gonorrhea and must demure tonight" and shrieking with laughter when it comes out in perfect Portuguese.
("Acho que voce e muito atraente, mas eu tenho gonorrhea e nao pode ter sexo hoje a noite.")
Then I copy the text and off it goes to one of my incredibly unfortunate bilingual friends.
I can now say, "That's what your mom said last night" in 62 different languages.
Let's join hands and break into a chorus of "We Are the World", shall we?
I need the distraction, faggots.
Somethings's been on my mind a lot, lately.
I'd say for, oh, about the last two years.
But it's really started to bother me this year.
Because this is the year I turned 27.
In my mind, as a kid, I imagined 27 as the magical age where I would have it all together.
I would look fucking cool.
I would smoke pencil-thin cigarettes in a Paris that always rained.
I would cling to the back of my lover's motorbike and laugh over my shoulder.
I would have a small dog that I cuddled with in pictures.
VOGUE was very important in my house.
My mom and I studied that magazine every month, with me on her lap, the second it flopped onto our front stoop in its plastic wrapper.
When I got too big to sit on her lap, we put our heads together at the kitchen table and leafed through the pages.
Mom drank Sanka and educated my ass.
Dolce & Gabbana was for trashy gold-diggers.
Gucci was for new money and Italians.
Tommy Hilfiger was a flash in the pan.
Ralph Lauren did 'prep school' and 'equestrian' beautifully.
Dior was for ladies.
Pucci was hideous and always had been.
Marc Jacobs was acceptable until you were 30.
Prada was usually right (when they weren't fucking around with minimalism.)
I basically learned to read with VOGUE.
I can still remember, at six, thinking, "Why are all these women named Chanel?"
The gorgeous, lanky jewelry designers with boutiques in London were always 27 years old.
And now I am 27. And soon I'll be 28. And then it's only 2 years to 30!
And I am worried, oppressed, and haunted by one question:
"When are you too old for all this?"
As in, when are you too old to be a fuck-up?
*When are you too old to think you look fantastic in suspenders? (and be absolutely correct, bitches).
*When do you have to stop changing jobs every year?
*When do you stop hanging out with your friends at clubs and start getting interested in fuckery like gardening and Merlot?
*When are skinny-jeans too young for you?
You can see I can't sleep at night.
Our culture worships the young. At some point, I will no longer be young.
What the fuck am I going to do?
AM I GOING TO HAVE TO STOP SAYING "FUCK"????
Because I don't think I can.
I will not be able to give up shitty hip-hop.
I may never be able to afford insurance.
I can't find a career I'm interested in.
I am nowhere near grownup status, and yet: I am a grownup.
There are unsettling signs.
Tricks, I already fucking hate going dancing.
I already get sleepy at 10 p.m.
And I have coupons for Denny's that I use.
NEXT STOP: A hot mug of Ensure and a 6 p.m. enema.
Right? What do you think?
You're rolling your eyes.
You're going "Honey, you couldn't pay me to be 27 again."
And that's fine. Lord your wisdom over me. I'm used to being the youngest. Baby in the family, baby among my friends, always the youngest.
But holy fuck, there are new babies in town. New kids were born, and they are now taking over.
What do you think, homos?
I know you're scoffing. But this actually fucking worries me.
Can you help me with my slightly-more-than-a-quarter-life crisis?
How can we age gracefully? How can we grow up un-lame?
How can we stay rad?