Here’s what a(nother) pot of coffee at 6 p.m. gets all of you: Part II.
7. Rock Hard Abs
These are for super models that make more money over the course of two underwear-clad shoots in the Bahamas than most Americans do in a whole calendar year. Embrace your beer guts, your muffin tops, those squishy places your asshole friend loves to push with his/her forefinger (This person would be on your Fuck-It list for the year, though it would more accurately be a “Fuck-You” list).
8. Your Real Age
It occurred to me the other day that if I pretend I am twenty-three-years old this year, I have effectively erased all of those wasted bullshit years I spent drinking cans of Monster, dancing in someone else’s cigarette smoke until whatever wee hour of the morning, and coming home to read badly written love letters from boys on Myspace. Okay, that last part never actually happened. But what did happen between the age of twenty-one and twenty-three was a whole lot of fucking nothing and you know what? I’m taking those years back. Hello, my name is Jenny Bahn and I was born in 1988.
9. Opening Ceremony
Who the hell buys this shit? I’m the first one to appreciate high-fashion concept clothing but I have yet to figure out who the hell can afford it. Oh, maybe it’s the people that have “My Paycheck” on their Fuck-It lists.
10. Neurotic Dietary Conditions
I think I probably spent $679 dollars on gluten-free crackers from Whole Foods this year and another $341 on soy cheese. Do I feel healthier? Not really. Do I wish I had that money back? A little bit. My new favorite thing in the universe is Laughing Cow cheese spread over those wheat crackers with some weird name I can’t remember. Sprinkle a few dried pomegranate seeds on top of that and voila! You’ve got your own pseudo Starbuck’s Cranberry Bliss Bar…you know, minus all the cream cheese and sugar and delicious crumbly crust. Alright, fine. I’m still going to be neurotic in 2011, but I’m going to make sure it costs me a whole lot less.
I could go the rest of my life without walking down Broadway, battling tourists en route to consumer hell for sidewalk space. Same goes for inhaling the toxic perfume they pump out of the Hollister store. I don’t need any more cheap shoes. I don’t want to be subjected to your terrible food. I just don’t. Prince Street Station, I’m sorry, you are officially dead to me. Nuts 4 Nuts, I’m going to miss your delicious roasty smell, but the rest of you…Fuck It.
12. Eighteen-dollar Drinks
Dear Establishments, If you wish to keep your young and hip clients nice and happy you should really stop raping them on beverages; they’re going to stop coming, preferring to hole up in their tiny Williamsburg and East Village apartments drinking bathtub gin. The economy is still recovering for fuck’s sake. Le Bain, I’m talking to you. Provocateur, you suck so bad you don’t even count. Bunker, you’re not that great. Like, seriously.