The Time Has Come For The Day Drinking Fun

With warm weather rushing towards us (and bringing with it Amanda Bynes rap career – say wha) winter has never seemed so far away. Summers glory is about to take the fuck over. And what goes best with warm weather?

Alcohol.

We drink in the winter to get over how ridiculously depressing it is that the sun goes down at 4pm. Where as we drink in the summer to simply well…get white girl wasted by 4pm. But there is one problem. The achilles heal to getting your drink on. And what would that be? Well, finding ways to drink outside is the adult version of trying to chew gum in class. So what do we do?

We get crafty.

(summer jam background music necessary)

Now clearly the alcohol industry wants us to be able to drink outside just as much as we all want to, proof you say?

So technically this is for some “classy’ no blender margarita business aka you have become the laziest party host in all of the land. But let’s be real, blenders are a pain in the ass. They are loud, and dumb to clean. Fuck blenders. ONWARDS:

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This looks just like those weird as all get out single serving fruit pouches Starbucks has by the registers. I am willing to put money on the fact that no cop would stop me, drinking out of a juice pack BECAUSE all cops think I’m 14 and therefore would see absolutely no problem. If you aren’t a queer boi, you may have some issues.

Sissy fruity drinks not your thing? No worries. Clearly catering to the folks on Intervention WHICH HAS BEEN CANCELLED. To which I am not even commenting on because the heart break is too real. Though I think the best commentary on it ending (and why society just can’t do with out it) came from Rihanna after Amanda Bynes had shall we say a moment:

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                                                                                                                                                                                                    #thathappened

Moving on be-fucking-hold:

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Now these also lead us into a whole ‘nother territory. Living in Manhattan we all deal with some ridiculously expensive drink prices. We sigh about it and foot the bill, but seriously sometimes you need to pay your cell phone bill. I know this walks the line of becoming that lady who brings her “big bag” to the buffet. But let us be honest WE ARE ALL ON THE WAY TO BECOMING THAT LADY. So what’s the harm in maybe ordering a soda and slipping one (three) of these bad boys in? It does say “pocket shot” – this product is instructing me that it does indeed live a better life in my pocket. So like let me help it help me. If any of my bartender friends are reading this I’m totally joking, well no… I’m not BUT I promise I will never do it at your bar.

Pinkie promise.

The universal please arrest me sign is a brown paper bag. Which is why I am always so confused when I go to the bodega and they place my Coke in one. I’m like dude this is legal, please don’t subject me to a bag check on the Subway that I totally didn’t sign up for. But side bar who are these asshat’s walking around thinking that you can drink out of a fucking Solo cup. You can’t bro. The city isn’t your extended beer pong playground. You can’t take a winners lap around Washington Square. I’m sorry. But you can’t. You know what you can do? You can do this:

This is essentially unequivocally the best thing that I have ever fucking seen. But who would waste all of those cold ounces on a Heineken? Whiskey or bust baby.

Now a handy chain of stores has taken over this city providing us with a cheap assortment of frosty mixers. 7-11 I salute you.

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10 year old me saw this as a delicious escape from summers heat. 23 year old me sees this as a buffet of already made mixed drinks.

And guys! YOU GUYS. Someone fixed all of our first world drinking outside problems. How you ask? Because someone invented these four packaging marvels:

1. iphlask11

That is a fake iPhone that is actually a flask.

2. 

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Now box wine is nothing new. But single servings allow for a much easier day in the park.

3. 

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That. Is. Whiskey. In. A. CAN. I think I am crying. Is this what it feels like to give birth? This can, made by a Latin American distributor pours out 8 shots which the company touts is great because than you can share with two of your friends. Which like…no. But thanks.

4. 

Champagne in a can? I know. Your head is spinning. Nothing says classy like drinking from a tiny pink can with a tiny pink straw.
Nothing.

A few rad bars in Brooklyn sell these, otherwise it is to an UES liquor store for ye.

Now my favorite holiday month is coming up, you know the one with glitter and rainbows and all things glorious and gay? PRIDE! Let us be brutally honest for as amazing as the Pride parade is, it is a fucking hot as balls (literally) shit show. The cops won’t let you cross any streets, and all you really want is to get to your party of choice and get it get it. This year while all the madness is going down don’t forget your street tools:


So technically these are for bikers, runners, you know people working out. But as far as I am concerned surviving Pride IS a sport. Pump this full of whatever you want. Throw it on your back, and enjoy an alcohol IV all day long.

Now I hate feet. Like really fucking hate them. So I’m not ever trying to go this route. But if shoe liquor is up your alley Reef has you covered.

(but like who wears flip flops to Pride?)

Actually, seriously kids flip flops are like the dirtiest shoe that will ever touch your foot. You might as well just be walking around Manhattan barefoot and then step into your apartment with the dirt of a million all over you. Think about it.

In other news:
If all of these things seem like way too much work for you, a bar in Williamsburg has your back.
http://www.yelp.com/biz/turkeys-nest-tavern-brooklyn
Grab any beverage (to go) and be on your merry way. No. I’m not kidding.

Also.

Mariah called – she wants her song back.

How Good?

Have you ever had sex with someone and stupidly when it was over uttered something along the lines of:
So was that good for you?

Or:
Was that the best you’ve ever had?
OR:
So was I better than your ex? (which I did ask once too close to a breakup and made a lady cry…don’t ever ask this. Ever.)

HAVE YOU?!?

After sex is a really weird time. It’s either super cheesy and cuddly and lovely, or just super awkward. You’re all sticky and hot from the sexin, you probably don’t look nearly as delicious as before the deed went down – you essentially just worked out horizontally (or I mean however you get down). And your brain is basically like:

So the chance of something really stupid slipping out of your mouth is high. You just went through G Force, you’re experiencing after sex 0 gravity. And your tongue sometimes just starts forming words before your brain has the time to tell it to shut the fuck up. I know that I have totally been a culprit of the after sex ‘ask’. A little thing happens where this little obnoxious cheerleader in your head is like: You da best you da best. Ask her ask her assssssskkk herrrrrrr. So she says the words out loud and then it’s like, The Universe Will Know and then you’ll win some universal sex award or whatever. Or worse. A little voice in your head is like: I don’t know if that went as well as I’m thinking it did and we’re both kind of just laying here and it would probably be a bad time to bring up the sequester soooo let me just…ask if I like…did that right.

Now, a little talk about needs never hurt anyone. Knowing how to please your partner is vital to a healthy and amazing sex life. But can we all do ourselves a little favor, and stop asking for a progress report afterwards? Your brain wants to know. You’re laying there and all you want is instant gratification – in words that is. But before you open your mouth work it out. Don’t ask her/him to rate you. Don’t get all ahead of yourself. Take a deep breath. Smile because no matter what, you did just get to have a little fun time and fun time is always the best time.

On another note. It’s the freakin weekend baby imma bout to have me some fun.

TGIF betch.

Cliche & Corny

There are these kids. These kids that I know. They give life all they’ve got. They slack off more than anyone I know. These kids man these kids get so fucked up. They drink and they rage. They lock themselves away. The write and create. They forgot how to love. But I am pretty sure they forgot how to hate. I don’t know if what we’re doing makes sense. I guess I’d judge us. If I didn’t know us. But then again why are we all so stuck on trying to figure everyone out. I haven’t given up. No one ever told us that living was a sickness. I thought I was running towards nothing. But maybe that was always the point. I see no end but I’m always thinking about it. The. So scared of dying. Drunk off living. But they say – every morning is a new beginning.

I prefer you shut off the lights.

Self.

A blog post popped up on my News Feed this afternoon (like they do every few minutes) but wait, this one was actually thought provoking:

It made me think of how I view myself, and how society views me. This body has taken 23 years for me to come into, and it is safe to say that I am proud of it. When I was younger, I was awkward to say the least. I was a size 9 shoe by the time that I hit 6th grade – currently a women’s 14 in case you’re wondering. I was always one of the tallest in my class; I dwarfed the boys who I was supposed to be taking interest in (ha ha) and all of my girl friends had completely different bodies then I did. At sleepovers I watched along while they played dress up and put on makeup. I took more interest in their interest, in how suddenly they were transformed. I wanted to feel the same way, but I knew that high heels and mascara would not evoke those feelings.

The one thing that I always had was a sense of humor, which when you’re being teased about: A. Your foot size (my going nickname was Nina Projetski) B. Have thick glasses and C. Are rocking overalls and turtlenecks with no shame – is pretty fucking important. I knew that I could always make people laugh, for whatever reason I could always get along with girls. From an early age I learned how to flirt and get close to them. I could share my secrets with girls, and felt safety in their presence. Boys like men now, confused me. I wanted to be masculine but I wanted to do it in the presence of femininity.

In my early high school years I was pretty much walking the line between LA surfer chick and 90’s skater boy. Picture it. Do it. Let it happen. It was a beautiful marriage and I will not hear otherwise. But when my junior year rolled around I had pretty much no fucks to give. My home life was crumbling, and I had friends who supported the fact that I was a lesbian and dating girls. I cut off my hair to a shaggy “Shane” length which then graduated to a mohawk. By the time my freshman year of college rolled around I was presenting in a way that for the first time in my life made me feel like me

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#thatsright

Since then I have progressively become more masculine. As I was exposed to more and more queer culture I realized that I what had been missing for me all along was a proper gender pronoun. I had never, not once in my life felt like a girl. I hated the attention I would get from men when I was in skirts, or presenting as a female, but when I was at home and saw myself in the mirror I was pleased. Clothing can do so much for a person, or at least my person. The way I dress today feels like the completion of the longest marathon. Two years ago when I shaved off my hair and looked at myself I felt so many pieces come together. For years when I looked in mirrors I saw a person that other people accepted this was the first time I was seeing myself. It broke my fucking heart.

Now back to this article, or rather what it made me think about; I personally don’t lead interactions with my looks, I lead with what I hope is seen as charm or my sense of humor. I lived for so long as an ugly duckling that I simply can not grasp that people like or approach me based on my looks. I am not naive enough to say that I don’t think I am some form of attractive, but I am not cocky enough to say that I base whether or not someone will interact with me because of my good looking (or whatever) face. When designers or photographers approach me for fashion shoots or shows I feel a combination of being both: totally caught off guard and feeling some form of justification. That feelings stems from all of the nights I cried myself to sleep as a preteen. For all of the bullies that I had to stand up to. For all of the boys who called me ugly. For all of the boyfriends that I didn’t have. Looks are not everything, but getting attention for something that for years I was convinced I would never have is a damn good feeling.