Men

Let's talk about men.

I've strolled into the land of "Latin Lovers" and I've very much had it. I hate men kissing my hands, I hate men telling me they love me after our first broken conversation of hand gestures, I hate having to take the tram in the wrong direction so I don't get followed home, I hate having to hide in my house for days because I don't want to accidentally run into someone in this little city. I'm by no means a slut, not like it would matter if I were, but I do not have the energy to take care of people who I barely know yet alone can barely hold a conversation with. OR WANT TO HOLD A CONVERSATION WITH. Like, if I wander off, it does not mean "follow me." NO. It means I don't want to be in your presence however I do not think I should be forced away from a public place that I have every right to be in alone. And throwing up the middle finger just leaves them thirsty for more. It's called a hint. Take it.

Funny Story: What's written on this hoodie
actually translates into "Rape Me" in Italian
OH WAIT
NO, it FUCKING doesn't!

I leave my house for one reason: because I feel bad burdening my roommate with my presence. I throw on a men’s hoodie, pop my ear buds in, bring my book, and sit where there is plenty of people watching to be had. I do not need more male admirers, especially when you don’t have any redeeming qualities besides a brother that makes a fine pizza (this is not a racist joke, this is a real example). I have some guys I like here, they treat me quite well for what I seem to be (a slab of meat?) and I’m really ok with not being your mother or third girlfriend. I don’t need to nurse you to health when I’m the one feeling homesick. Don’t act like I have time. I don’t. That’s why I don’t have makeup on. I DON’T HAVE TIME. Unless I like you, which, chances are, unless your name starts with an L or an F or a vagina, I don’t.

But speaking of men, let’s turn back to look at New York City. They could learn a few things from the guys here. Like, you know, to have a fucking soul. New York men are so self-sufficient and simply don’t have time for this shit called romance, nor anything else besides humping and dumping.

If the goal for both cities’ men is to get it in, you’d think that there would be some middle ground. I suppose that’s what the middle of the US is for. Maybe. What even exists there? Are there even women there? I don’t know.

All in all, I hate going outside.

I'm in a Hairy Situation

As a fashion design student, I know how important one’s outward appearance is. It’s pretty obvious that the kind of person that takes on this major has a sick and almost perverse relationship with clothing, fabric, style, and art. And I suppose all of us can be described as strong characters.

While in high school, I always felt incredibly uncomfortable in my own skin. I would reinvent myself every year and adjust the way I dressed to try and suit who I wanted to be. Now, although I probably am not as over-styled as I would like (high heels? Hell no!), I’ve found a weird peace with my wardrobe. I know what I like to wear. And I know that I’m safe wearing anything at my school (something I was not comfortable with at my high school).

“It’s hard to find an intern – especially one from a fashion school – that has good style” – Adam Lippes  

“It’s hard to find a poorly dressed male fashion designer that doesn’t say offensive shit about their interns (and probably females too but whatev)” –Leah Trojan #SORRYNOTSORRY #WeWorkForFree

One of the ways I’ve been able to channel some of the negative energy started in late September 2011, after a traumatic experience (though lets be honest, living in Brooklyn is a traumatic experience all on its own) and while I was in the midst of a weird non-relationship; I made a commitment that I wasn’t able to make before I left home: I dyed my hair pink!

then red (so I could be Ariel for Halloween!!) ...with black tips

then back to my natural color for a bit (boring!) underdyed with green and blue

then full on green (ok, this was not the best hair color I've ever opted for)

then blue so I could transition to purple

then I came full circle back to pink and now an orangey-red that's ombre-ing with my natural strawberry blond hair.

My suite mates and I would joke about my subsequent hair-dying ritual. I would joke “I dye my hair every time I enter or leave a relationship.” My suitemate and fellow fashion major made another observation: she knew I was procrastinating when I had dye smeared all over my head. I guess my hair to me is a coping mechanism, it has helped me feel better when I felt unhappy much of sophomore year.

It’s true, sometimes I feel depressed. Or I suppose it’s something that happens quite often: I’m clinically depressed. I’m taking medicine to help me with it and I’ve gotten to resume a “normal” life (I say that because, like many others, I have been coping with depression ever since I can remember) since I was prescribed it last year. However, sometimes it hits me, cripples me, and ultimately leaves a devastating impact in my path toward living. Though, I suppose if you’ve ever asked me my life goals, I often just say “I want to be happy”. That can either be taken as the most or least ambitious goal you’ve ever heard, but it’s the only goal I can imagine worth living toward. If I didn’t have that light then I would have probably already taken my own life; I never expected to live past high school graduation. Somehow, I did. And somehow the façade I put on was able to get me accepted to both Parsons and Pratt (which were my top schools) and somehow I managed to convince my unraveled parents to allow me to escape to the US' fashion mecca. And after all of that I'm already approaching my senior year of uni.

Alright, well how does this all pertain to me right now in this moment? I’m in Milan. I’m alone. I’m feelin sad. AND I can’t find any goddamn hairdye. It’s like a firstworld problems shipwreck over here!!

…and then I found a package of hair pigmented treatment and I think I’m regaining my composure, or at least enough to continue on with another month (almost exactly!!) in Milano.

A Voyage

I'm on a Boat
...don't ask

I’ve been staring at my computer for hours now. Just staring. It seems like I’d be brimming with millions of blog ideas, and perhaps I am, but the fatigue of life often clouds my ability to accurately articulate my thoughts. In the past week I’ve found myself struggling with falling in and out of like, eating far too much, and have been reminded of my inability to manage time well. But I suppose those are the simple joys of life, huh?

My aunt, her husband, and her brother (so my uncles) are visiting this week so I’ve been seeing the city in a different perspective: a very tourist-y perspective. From my uncle adding an “o” to the end of words to make them seem more Italian (which probably confuses servers more than if he just spoke English) to my aunt’s need to photograph everything, it has finally felt almost ok to not know Italian, it’s felt almost ok to ask questions and to wonder. It’s been nice. Besides exploring Milan in a different light, I was also given the opportunity to visit Venice as a tourist. Last month I was able to spend some time with a good friend from NABA whose father lives right outside Venice. Although it was an amazing time and I did get to see more of the city than I could ever dream of, I was also a poser among locals; my friend and his high school comrades were seasoned in their ability to navigate the Venetian alleyways. With my family, although we rarely left the confines of St. Marco Square (or rather Tourist-Trap Central), I was able to view Venice in a new light: probably a little brighter than the dim bulb that my jaded friend sees, but also a little gaudier like the disgustingly endearing Venetian glass chandeliers that hung in every room of our 4-star hotel. I suppose I still need some time to reflect, and to digest all this goddamn food. And I'll get back to you when I'm ready!

He's sexy...and he knows it