The cruellest month is upon us. Note the spelling there: “cruellest.” You recognize that spelling? I’ll jingle my car keys at you if you don’t. Oh wait, I don’t have a car.
It is with great joy and trepidation that I write to you today, from my antique librarian desk, drinking red wine from a mason jar, resisting the HIPSTER/YUPPIE binary that society forces upon young women who choose alternate career paths. On the one hand, things have never been better! The sun has decided not to abandon us for the Andromeda Galaxy (that stupid ho!), the crocuses are opening their throats and singing to the skies, your faithful correspondent is getting her life together and applying for things to do this summer (you won’t find me doing anything that remotely smacks of “service,” no way! I only apply to things that will pay me to be fabulous. I am what’s wrong with our society!), and apparently everyone on Twitter agrees with me that ampersands are HAWT. On the other hand, the world is definitely ending. My boyfriend is reading 2666, every phone conversation we have ends with a discussion of the ABYSS, I lie awake at night wondering if I can mix carrot juice with champagne (Rose?!? Thoughts?), and I am receiving texts from Meriwether Fassbender-Clarke like this:
Ummmmmmmmmm OMG OMG HAS OUR GENIUS FINALLY THWARTED US?!?!?!?!?! WHY DO I KEEP REPEATING THAT WE’RE GENIUSES WHEN IT’S COMPLETELY IRRELEVANT?! I THINK SOMETHING IS WRONG WITH ME!!
OF COURSE YOU’RE AN ARTIST!!!! As geniuses, we just have other random skills that sometimes come into play. I make cookies, you lure people to remote destinations with Facebook invites, TOGETHER WE ARE INVINCIBLE!!!
Do you understand what I’m saying, young neophytes? Neither do I. All I can leave you with are these uncertain truths: try not to get hit by a bus this month. Please follow me on Twitter, it’s a lonely world out there. There is only one month between us and The Great Gatsby movie. Work hard. Don’t get too fatalistic (note to self). Don’t get yo panties in a twist about things that don’t matter, like the subtle sexism implied by the statement “panties in a twist.” Read “Blonde” by Joyce Carol Oates if you want to weep. Don’t hate yourself too much for being a judgmental antisocial socialite, it’s how we tortured creative types make sense of the world, riiiiight? BE HUMBLE. Be kind. Read Meriwether’s new blog. And Rose’s. Take your coin jar to the bank and use the resulting cash to buy glitter and stick-on nail art and chocolate wine. Don’t stress about supporting art for art’s sake, just dig the stuff you’re into and I promise that’s the type of genuine support art needs. Please don’t capitalize “Art,” it’s pretentious. We cool? Great. Happy April!