If I Went to NYU
On my first night, after freshman orientation, I’d start a cassette-only record label with the American Apparel model down the hall. We’d release dubstep remixes of witch house songs and make out in front of popular party photographers. We’d break up after she cheats on me with Ezra Koenig, and then I’d write a 20,000 word blog post calling Vampire Weekend our generation’s Boston.
This post would capture the attention of editors citywide, six of whom would hire me (at a rate of $1,000 an hour) as a party reporter. Then I’d attend parties, mostly; an ex-girlfriend might see a picture of me telling Jesse Eisenberg a very funny joke on Gawker, and rue the day she ended things with me, cool city guy.
I’d smoke cigarettes like I do now, but at NYU this would be, for some reason, fascinating; “how absolutely wonderful you smell,” Karen O would say, climbing out of my Bushwick love palace/D.I.Y. space some Sunday morning. (Beach Fossils, playing the night before, would tell me they’re naming their album after me, and that every chilled-out note of it would be a tribute to my largess and ineffable hipness.)
I would finally accept one of the hundreds of personalized, gold-embossed art gallery party invitations I’d received, and immediately upon stepping into the gallery would 1) become the perfect sort of drunk where you’re calm and buzzed and not vomiting either your heart or dinner out, 2) befriend James Franco (“I loved Howl,” I would say, by way of introduction) and 3) have my picture taken by Terry Richardson, under the (mistaken) assumption that I am a drugged, naked twenty-one-year-old. Franco and I would snort prescription pills off the Brooklyn Bridge and talk about being young and attractive and famous.
Then he’d jump.
I’d write about the experience for the Village Voice, recount it, teary-eyed, on the Today show, and routinely use it as a pick-up line. (“You know, I’m the guy who was standing next to James Franco when he killed himself,” I’d say. “Here is a business card with my home address, Tumblr handle, and preferred underwear style,” they’d say, handing me a business card and running out the door to get things ready for me.) Eventually I’d probably go to class, and pass on the strength of my charm alone, and then maybe I’d go into advertising, or academia.
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It’s unfortunate, but we’re creatures of habit and we’ll hold onto our convictions until we’re literally forced to stop.
You basically have to walk a perfect straight line at all times in Japan because if you veer off at any moment you will almost definitely get mashed by a Japanese lady on a mamabike with three kids strapped to it.
Come on people, as if other people’s choices of love affected you in the least. Penguins don’t pull this crap on fellow homosexual penguins.
3. You’ve searched Etsy or eBay for a cute and inexpensive fez.