By Judnick Mayard.
11:59: I turn over towards the window and grab the phone to check my messages. I am officially awake. I got to bed maybe six hours ago so I’m fairly certain that I need to be stoned rather immediately. I am throwing a party tonight, so my texts are filled with a few guest-list requests, which I am happy to give. I start reading Twitter–my morning news– and then decide today is Saturday my day off: Enough is enough. I rant a little about the party as a hype device and put the phone down. Everyone wants us to play the new Drake, but it’s an R&B party. “WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO WHEN THEY PLAY JODECI FREEK’N YOU?” I caps-tweet.
I’ve been working a freelance project that requires regular office hours, so I am excited to be in bed with no obligations before 10 PM. I begin to hack up gobs of phlegm as my cough goes into effect. I step in the bathroom to clear my lungs, then return to bed. This is my favorite part of days off: the return to bed. My phone begins to buzz as people start texting to rehash last night at Ernest’s set and ask me about logistics for tonight. I text Ernest about fuck niggas because that’s putting good aura out into the world first thing. I laugh through many jokes and force myself not to play Drake out loud from my phone. I tell myself it’s because my roommate might still be asleep, but I know it’s because I’m trying to curb my listening addiction. I can’t help it. I just wake up every day like, “When I pull up on a nigga, tell that nigga baaack back.” I text Rawiya about some dumb Twitter shit and catch up on her night in the 6.
14:44: I’m in the middle of a hilarious text convo with my friend Grace that is really just us running a perfect bit on my misspelling of “cuddle” as “Cudfle”. We’re pretending it’s a drug and doing a stellar job of side effect jokes: “Known side effects include weeping and unfettered bodyrolling.” She’s traveling, and the whole thing is really indicative of the fact that our vibes are almost always in sync on a Saturday morning. “I made it to DC without crying on the bus. That’s going on Twitter.” she says. I keep thinking about friends– I have a few experiencing loss at the moment, and I quietly send them positive vibes from my brain. I have made it to the couch, which is a feat, and have been chugging orange juice straight out of the bottle while rolling up a jazzy cigarette until food comes. I keep looping Drake’s latest mixtape while I eat a delicious sausageeggnchee that Seamless has helped a Bushwick café spot bless upon me. I pressed re-order on last week’s sandwich and receive the surprise of over-medium glory!
I have a cold that I’ve convinced myself I am “getting rid of” as I scarf down potato wedges and beet juice. I keep thinking about friends. Not just who they are, but how we take care of them, and they take care of us. I go through this often, and especially on days before I see many at one time. Just to take stock of where you stand with people. Remember things you wanted to ask them or mention. Things that let them know you remember the last time you saw them and you think of them often. Then, I think of the haters. Not people—I just think the word “haters” because it’s a real thing that also needs no attention. I’m getting lost in Drake lyrics. It’s a thing that everyone feels as a human–the idea that someone is jealous of you or hates you. It’s a flash of pride right before it’s dismissed for whatever reason because it’s a foolish concept– I lose my train of thought and tweet. My mind drifts off because I know I’ve been stalling on watching House of Cards. I text a rapper friend and check with others far into the season. I dont give a shit about spoilers because I have a giant imagination. Grace tweets her text with the hashtag #TrueGrit. I laugh out loud and send her a text full of trophy emojis.
17:08: My roommate Monica walks in from a brunch event with black women and is giving me her breakdown of the discussion which of course leads to us talking about race. I start explaining that the American Dream is only for white people, which is why I hate respectability politics and love black gangsters. “Nobody respects respectable black people, because the whole privilege in being white is that you’re not black or brown.” I always wonder if she thinks I’m insane, but then she sits on the couch and keeps talking to me, so I’m certain she at least has interest in my tirades. I’m wearing one of the flannels Yuri gave me when he and Toni were cleaning out their closet, but I’m missing the middle button so I’m constantly shifting to make sure my boob isn’t just flapping out. The shirt is basically an open smock.
I also use Monica’s presence as an excuse to get out of the stupor of laying on the couch. I heat up my coffee in the microwave and begin pacing back and forth, as I tend to do while I try and figure out what to eat. I have anxiety about the amount of leftovers in my fridge, and I can’t stop thinking about how to eat nine different proteins in one dish. This is the hell of not doing groceries and ordering pre-cooked food. What a disgusting first-world problem. I get really anxious about throwing away food because I can hear my immigrant mother weeping softly at my privileged disregard for shit that a lotta motherfuckers could use. I literally see the ghost of a small hungry child frowning at me, and I’m upset with myself for breaking my own rule about taking home leftovers from restaurants. This child has been haunting me for 2 days, and I wouldn’t have this problem is if I just let dude with the bun throw my quinoa and trout away. I continue getting anxious about random things, like whether I’m actually cool enough to have people come to a party, and whether it will be fun. This is dumb. It’s always fun. I start thinking about outfits. Thirty minutes later, and I’ve eaten nothing. I consider taking a nap and abandon the coffee halfway through the cup.
19:42: My other roommate, Danica, comes home and I finally decide to go in for a nap. This decision is brought on by both of them having a conversation about how far into the HOC season they’ve gotten and me pretending to take offense to them shading my goddamn life over four damn episodes. I also have a habit of pretending I’m a lazy husband. It’s my house character. We discuss the finesses of wearing all white outfits which they both confess that they don’t do: “I hate all white parties—are you having an all white party?” I scoff, “Nigga, please!” and head off to bed while they agree to start the season together. Danica jumps in the shower, playing music using our “turnup cup,” and it’s the Strokes: my ultimate good luck charm. I start to wonder if it’s a full moon because that means a lot of lusty ass feelings. I wonder if I will get laid and then dismiss the depressing thought. This is my meditative process every time I hear the Strokes. I think about how amazing New York City is and how the best nights are so random, but if they end in sex, it’s that much better. New York: the land of nights with sex…in your dreams. I lay down for a nap, but really just read my texts and don’t answer. Buzz: “What time are you getting there?” Danica texts me to say she’s ordering me Chinese food. I decide to ask if I can borrow her fake fur coat using the clause that I will be out all night while she is staying in. I’ll get up shortly.
20:32: I wake up from my nap, which was 15 mins of sleeping, and 30 of staring out the window. I play Drake while I shower, then realize while I’m naked that I should try on the bridesmaid dress I purchased for my best friend’s wedding. Danica’s friend Sophie comes over and immediately sets up her arts and crafts corner. I love that our house is so cozy and has its own cast of characters. I walk out to exclamations of, “Well, that’s just gorgeous!” and blush. There’s a split in the skirt I forgot about and I’m excited that the dress allows space for a beer belly. My deepest secret is that I’m a woman that dresses like a boy that secretly loves dressing up like a woman. If I could wear heels every day, I would, but I don’t like heels that don’t look like some sort of assassin’s weapon. Plus, my mom always said: “Women that love heels also ride cars.”
“What’s the cover for your party?” Monica says. I turn around grinning “ARE YOU GONNA COME?” She says yes. “I’ll add you to my guest list!”
22:31: I catch the train and realize I’m not wearing any of my new rings I just purchased. I become increasingly annoyed, because I am dramatic even in my own mind, and believe that my entire outfit has been ruined. I WILL NOT MEET MY LIFE PARTNER TONIGHT BECAUSE MY HANDS WILL NOT LOOK FIERCE AND DELICATE. This is why you should never rush leaving your house and it’s better to be fashionably late. That’s what fashionably late means, isn’t it? “I was late because I am working on my FASHUNZ!”
I get nervous because one of the hosts calls me—he was being stopped by security—but ultimately realize I am pretty early. (Of course the A train came immediately.) Whoa, my hands are also ashy. This winter needs to end immediately, if only for the crimes against my beautiful brown tone. I sit on the subway listening to Drake and thinking about the fact that I’m wearing a bra. I’ve worn this top braless before, but like on the couch earlier, I’d prefer not to spend the night running around the club with my titty flopping out. I hope I don’t die of chest constriction — the bra fits perfectly fine; I just have an active imagination. Also, the sweater that I bought this week and just put on today is definitely the most comfortable thing I’ve ever owned. My roommate’s fur has singlehandedly wiped out the need for extra layers. No wonder she was hesitant to lend it to me. I decide it’s OK that I don’t have rings on. I’m going fantastically minimalist, like Kanye, but I’m also wearing gigantic gold hoops. There’s nobody interesting-looking on the train but the few folks in the car are staring at my coat. I give them all a “jealous much?” smirk and continue to bop my head. I suddenly realize I’m not wearing any deodorant. I consider playing that song “Alone, Together” for peak sorrow. “Scented oil is deodorant.” I whisper softly to myself.
23:00: I get off the train and there’s a line outside the venue. I know the security has no idea who I am because I am the consummate lurk. I show up to my own party and pretend to be nobody. I walk to the end of the line while texting my manager Yaya, “Can you come and grab me? I’m outside.” She responds, “ok, but I have no juice!” I start laughing at the irony of this conversation and the possibility that I will have to wait on line to get into my own party. Suddenly, my partner shows up and introduces Yaya and I to security and I walk in. It’s much better this way. It feels…more Kanye. “It’s gonna be fuckin’ crazy tonight,” my partner says as we head down the stairs into the club. I turn and smile, mentally fast forwarding to the part where we’re all sweating and drunk and yelling “nigga!” into each other’s ears. “Yea, it’s about to be fucking lit!” I say, and we walk into the darkness.
Judnick Mayard is a writer, famous people–wrangler, and New York native. They’ll pry this city from her cold dead hands.