A Chromatican Girl in Paris, Part Une
A Chromatican Girl in Paris, Part Une
"Leavin'" by Jesse McCartney found in a trunk on Highway 10.
I’m leaving New York City tomorrow for a month to get fucked on the shores of the French Mediterranean by my boyfriend whom I have not seen since December 8th. I have basically not left the city proper for more than a weekend since before the pandemic.
It’s crazy because I have this feeling of one hundred percent certainty that the moment I board the shitty budget airplane for Paris I will receive unprompted emails from the Sex and the City and Gossip Girl respective reboot casting teams offering me dream roles, which I will read about during my three-hour layover in Lisbon at 4 in the morning and cry over a shitty twenty dollar croissant as I book a flight back to cut short my years-in-the-making vacation so I can win my Guest Actress Emmy.
To butcher a Joan Didion essay I once read in a sushi restaurant when three friends and I tried to start a reading club (our inaugural meeting was our only meeting): I’m going to miss it here!
Some Things I’ll Miss:
Snorting poppers in a dark abandoned fountain in Prospect Park while Robyn’s masterpiece “Indestructible” slouches towards Bethlehem (my ears).
The Five Leaves patrons I angrily screamed “I’m fine!” at after falling off my bike.
The disgusting straight guy driving recklessly on his Revel scooter whom I hissed ‘What the fuck?’ at, to which he roared in reply: “HEY PAL!!”
Pooping in the lobby of the Marlton hotel.
Getting too drunk and flipping everyone off on the subway as I exit the car, and then finding out months later that a peripheral friend from college saw me do that and was concerned for my well-being.
The burritos from that place between Birdy’s and Happyfun Hideaway, choosing to ignore the digestional consequences.
My two favorite smells in the world, both of which have been abundant in Greenpoint this season: lilac bushes and summer rain on hot concrete.
Taking too many mushrooms and curling up in a dark booth inside 3 Dollar Bill, emerging from my cocoon only to tell anyone in my immediate vicinity that I’m in love with them.
The time I went to the laundromat in the middle of a thunderstorm, and when I walked inside it was empty and “Killing Me Softly With His Song” by Fugees started playing, and I added my quarters and then sat on a linoleum chair and listened to the song for the next three minutes, staring out at the rain pattering on the concrete.
Chicken enchiladas from Molé, dumpling soup from Silver Rice, Kung Pao Chicken from Kings County Imperial, cheeseburgers from Corner Bistro (but outside of that I don’t eat pork or beef because I loved Okja too much!)
The guys who are friends with my landlord who sometimes drink beer and pee on our stoop and one time might have muttered “Is that a boy?” as I walked past with my bike so I told my boyfriend what I thought I might have heard and he went and yelled at my landlord and the landlord apologized even though the more I think about it the more I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear anything.
Taking a Citi Bike home after a party, blasting Beethoven’s “I. Adagio Sostenuto,” the wind caressing my neck, my curls billowing behind me, trying to force tears, thinking wistfully about what could have been and what is yet to come (filming the pivotal scene in my A24 dramedy).
To Plug Oneself Is Nothing Short of Divine
In an exhilarating twist I have picked up some freelance work during Pride (outlets, I want to be very clear that I’m still capable of writing things outside of Faggot Month.)
I profiled Generation star Justice Smith for InStyle. He was an incredibly smart, engaging, thoughtful, and funny person to talk to, and I’m very happy with how this piece turned out. Read it! He talks about sex!
I’m truly freaking out that I have a piece in the Pride print issue of The Hollywood Reporter, which you can read an extended version of here. The story is about nonbinary representation in Hollywood, and questions why the Academy Awards and their peers have divided acting into a strict binary of honorees. I’m really, really proud of this one. I hope you learn something from it, bitch. To be honest, I’d come really close to giving up on a journalism career entirely before Covid ever hit. This piece has reinvigorated my faith in myself and what I’m capable of, and proved to me that I can make it as a writer outside of the random blip of content I made for Out.
When it rains it pours freelance work onto emaciated queenies, I guess: I also have a conversation with Big Freedia live now on Paper. Little Monsters should check this one out.
And as of today I’m the latest guest on the wonderful David Odyssey’s astrology podcast The Luminaries, talking about the birth chart of Dame Lindsay Lohan. Listen below:
The Dark Lorde Is Serving
No, not Harry Potter—fuck transphobic Mr. Rowling! Lorde, the singer that brought us all to cathartic tears with “Ribs” and caused me to crack my skull open in an East Williamsburg basement, has finally released a new single, her first song since the 2017 life-changing masterpiece Melodrama.
I went to Fire Island two weeks ago and stayed on a houseboat and did a bunch of drugs. On Friday afternoon, some gays and I were stewing in a heated pool when the leak to the song became available thanks to my dear friend Maia. Suffice to say I was able to hear the song for the first time on a huge speaker, in a swimming pool, clutching a White Claw in my talons, shaking my long, wet, seaweed-like hair about my face as “Solar Power” first kissed my dying ears.
The new album will be dropping August 20. Not to be a bitch but on that date I will be sipping wine in Napa, California with my mom and sister, which I feel is the perfect environment to absorb this next era. Good to know at least Lorde supports the trans community!
One More Time For The Broke Twinks Smoking in the Nosebleeds:
I watched the newest season of Elite. Damn, I guess dreams do come true! Prestige TV is just really good softcore porn now. No, like, this uncomfortably hot Insta-twunk literally sucks this other guy’s cock through his underwear in a nightclub. For your Emmy Consideration, cunt!
Last thing about pronouns and then I swear to God I will shut the fuck up about it: to invoke a classic structure (rhyming): ‘they and SHE are good for ME.’
When I come back from France on July 30th I will be in desperate need of procuring a job IMMEDIATELY. If you’ve read this far, you a real one, and real ones hire beautiful young women to do something cool for them with great benefits. I want to feel like Anne Hathaway at work!
The Importance of Being Earnest
The last couple of months have been some of the best of my life. After a year of feeling extremely lonely and depressed and wanting to give up on myself, personally and professionally, I’ve randomly blossomed into a new chapter of my soul—sorry cynics, this section isn’t for you. I’ve met so many new friends who I already cherish as Lifers, and while I’m obviously very excited to go spend a month in the south of France with my lover, I’m going to miss all of you a lot! So here’s my proposal: Don’t have too much fun without me. Don’t have too much, don’t have too much, please don’t forget about me, try not to love no one...
I came out as trans on the last full moon by pure happenstance. I had a going away party on Thursday (lol), and that coincidentally happened on a full moon as well. I earnestly worship Luna as my form of religion, and so I’d like to say thank you, Luna, for all the wonderful people and opportunities and days and nights I’ve been given this spring/summer, and thanks in advance for all the incredible stuff yet to come, including but not limited to having sex in front of Tilda Swinton on the beaches of Cannes!
