“The Bedroom Apocalypse: Sex Robots Might Eventually Replace Sex Workers”

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The following is a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

The future is now, sluts!

Nothing screams “Yes! Yes! Yes!” quite like the cold, bloodless flesh of a robot. I mean, really. I have to change my panties five times a day just to keep up with the absolute downpour going on at the prospect of banging a machine. Oh, wait. These sex robots are probably just for dudes, because chicks get all emo about their sex business and there is zero chance a robot would fall in love with her, as opposed to a real, live human, where the percentage goes up to, like, I dunno, 2.3% or something.

So sex robots are probably more for the cis dudes. Ladies, read on if you must.

 

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“See Like a Girl: The Importance of Corrine Day”

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The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on The Style Con:

There is something about the way the eye of a woman falls on one of her own kind. It is full of an awareness of experience, devoid of accidental exploitation or perplexed observance—that distanced watching of flamingos wander about a cage, beautiful birds in a gilded zoo. That knowing gaze is something documented, purposefully or otherwise, by female photographers. You’ve been there. I’ve been there. We know. All of it, encapsulated in a simple frame.

While male photographers can gamely attempt to encapsulate the experience of what it means to be girl, too often it’s a mere piecemeal projection of the various things women are capable of being. There are Steven Meisel’s powerhouse vixens, Juergen Teller’s blown-out and over-exposed icons and ingénues, Paolo Roversi’s beautiful ghosts. These all represent parts of women told in stories too brief. And no matter how close these guys come to getting it—I meanreally getting it—there is always a sense of distance, a mark just barely missed.

And then there’s Corrine Day.

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F%*KING YOUR FRIENDS IS LIKE EATING YOUR VEGETABLES. NO ONE WANTS TO DO IT.

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The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

“I want that plate cleared,” Mom would say, a threat often lobbied to me and my brother growing up, which was like winning an all inclusive package to Hades, where you were never just given the option to consume things a la carte, but in horrible little packages, where a nice bit of chicken was permanently married to a heap of steamed broccoli. They were to go down together, in twos, if you were ever to think of sticking a spoonful of dessert in your mouth. And so you’d down it, the vegetative gristle of the broccoli grinding against your molars, coating your tongue with its unpleasant moss. And I would do it, if for no other reason than to get my mom off my back. Eat your vegetables. There is nothing more ubiquitously traumatic and universally understandable than this phrase.

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“(Dinner) Party of One”

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The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on Lady Clever:

White and green. That’s the color scheme of Gillian’s wedding. Really deep emerald, she adds. Very country club, I offer. She tells me about the three days of dress shopping and the ball gown-esque thing she eventually settled on. Structured and formal. “Just like us,” she quips. Gillian and Nathan are getting married in November, which seems soon. But that’s probably because I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a set wedding date– a number barreling at you from the distance like a freight train, until it arrives, and you’re surrounded by your country club colors and the gold walls of an East Coast church, standing next to a dude who stuck around for more than three weeks—a dude who, in theory, wants to stick around for eternity. The concept is unfathomable to me, like asking a kid who lives in some shantytown in Johannesburg to imagine what it would be like to get on a plane and travel to America, to live in a house with central heat and air conditioning, with a pool in the backyard and a freezer filled with ice cream. So laughably far off, so hilariously implausible. That’s what this feels like.

At least for me.

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“Miranda Kerr is on the Cover of GQ and I Am Sitting on My Couch: Where Did My Life Go Wrong?”

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The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

New York Fashion Week, 2004-ish or some shit. I’m waiting backstage at the ___________ show, my skin all porcelain and wrinkle free, my eyes so full of dumb hope, my thin limbs so full of promise. “You fit in just like the other models,” the producer tells me. “You’re just like one of the New York girls!”

When you’re working in Los Angeles, you are—as my dad likes to describe the horror of being cast aside and fiercely rebuked—treated “like a redheaded step-child.” While I’m personally a big fan of the ging and bear them no ill tidings (I heard people in Australia are legitimately afraid of the fiery ones; this may or not be true. That being said, I am 50% Aus and I feel nothing inherently Redhead Resistant in my blood if that means anything at all. Which it doesn’t.) So yeah, what the hell was I talking about? COMPLEXES. MODEL COMPLEXES.

 

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“A Song-by-Song Coachella Refusal”

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The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on The Style Con:

Dear Coachella,

I’m not going to be visiting you this year, just like I didn’t visit you last year or the year before that or the year before that. And this isn’t because you’ve turned into a very expensive shadow of what you once were. It is not because of the 18-year-olds running around with their butt cheeks hanging out, wearing fashionable boots that are 100% season-inappropriate. It’s not about the vegan trucks (love those) or the $1000 VIP passes (pretty expensive cage, no?). Nor is it about the eight hours it once took me five years ago to drive from the San Fernando Valley into the crowded Indio Polo Field parking lot, only to miss 90% of the shows and hate most of my friends for no reason.

No, it is none of these things.

 

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“Instagram and Coachella: #Confused”

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The following is an excerpt from a piece originally featured on The Style Con:

Weren’t at Coachella this weekend? Great. Neither were we. But it was 70 glorious g-damn degrees in New York so who cares? Also, abstaining from what has become one of the country’s #1 shitshows probably means you don’t have one of a number of things acquired over the last few days, namely a sunburn and a fun STD. If you’re still bummed you missed out on the fashion photo opp of your lifetime a weekend of amazing music, we’ve dug through the, like, million of unfortunately tagged photos on Instagram and found the worst of the worst to suck that salt right out of the wound. These shots will make you happy you just stayed home and made your dog brunch.

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“Never Fall in Love with a Street Style Star” on The Style Con

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…three years ago, my own ghost came in the form of a bearded, tatted up man with stick legs and Prada boots. A fashion dude. He was a handsome nobody—anonymous and available, occupying but a few short rows of a Google image search query. He traveled the circuit—Milan, Paris, London, New York—sitting side-by-side with those famous fashion bloggers, the It Girls, buyers from Bergdorfs, but nobody cared about him yet. He, like most normal people, slipped under the radar. He emailed me from London the first time he was shot for the Sartorialist, looking solemn and gray in front of a stone wall, blue coat belling around his narrow frame, hands crossed politely in front of him. “Don’t make fun of me,” he begged, as I sent him the choicer of the comments already swiftly developing beneath the image, delighting in the panty-dropping hysteria my sort-of-boyfriend was capable of causing.Click here to read more.

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“This Video Taught Me Everything and Nothing. I Can’t Be Sure” on The Style Con.

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I’ve been wanting to go to Poland for a long time. “Warsaw: Spring Break 2014” just has this unshakable ring to it. Yet despite its seemingly universal appeal—the siren’s call of the Eastern Bloc—I haven’t been able to get anyone over there with me. Everyone’s all, “Let’s go to St. Barths” or “Miami for the weekend, anyone?” and I’m standing here, alone, with a coach class ticket from LOT and tears welling in my eyes. Well, this latest music video from the Motherland featuring supermodel Anja Rubik isn’t likely going to sway any of my friends. Even though it should. Because it is amazing. Amazing in the way MS-DOS was amazing, in the way PAC-MAN was amazing, in the way all of those technological advances of my childhood I could reference right now and date myself horribly—Carmen Sandiego, MYST, a late-model ‘80s Motorola—are amazing.

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“Older. Wiser. Dirty. Thirty” on Lady Clever

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I write to you from the edge of my twenties, my last week before I hit the big 3-0, Monday, March 24th.

As a kid, I’m not sure what I expected this time to look like, whether I would have been married for six years by now or had kids already wondering what they were going to be when they “grew up,” but I’m absolutely positive I did not imagine this: Sitting at the window of my office, looking out onto the salt-crusted, barren- tree-lined street of my New York neighborhood, employed to talk about things such as the significance of getting older. No, this is not what I imagined at all.

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