Women in heels (and men, too).

Aug

2012

Me in my Minnie Mousetitute heels.

I’m writing this post because people always ask me, “How do you walk in those [heels]?” ESPECIALLY in New York City. To me that’s like asking, “How do you walk?” In that, I’ve never really thought about it. I just put them on and go. Because I’m short I’ve been wearing heels for most of my life. Here are my tips to help you ladies (and you men out there, too, I know you’re out there) walk in heels. Hint: products like these from Foot Petals can really help:

On the left: Pressure Pointz for Stilleto Heels. Right: Stilleto Shieldz.

Because the hardest thing about wearing heels is the hell it can be on the balls of your feet. By supporting the balls of your feet, you can go hours without feeling like you’re suddenly walking on hot coals. The Shieldz are good for preserving the tips of your heels, especially if you’re walking on concrete all day, so that you don’t scrape them. I scraped the heels of my Marc by Marc Jacobs black leatherish something pumps, and my life hasn’t been the same since. These are serious issues that no one is talking about. We need to talk about them. And Kevyn.

When putting on your heels, do not be afraid of them. They can sense fear. Act like you’re putting on any other type of shoe. Like most things in life, wearing heels is about confidence. Start with a low heel and work your way up. Or just be a badass bitch and start at the top.

Platform heels are the easiest to get started with, since they’re level, whereas with stiletto heels, you’re fighting gravity as your foot is on a slope. Whatever you start with, put them on, and walk a few feet. Do not look down. Just walk. Don’t run.

To keep your balance and your badassery, keep your shoulders back and think of your boobs as miraculous lighthouses illuminating your path in dark water. Yes, your tits stick out when you’re wearing heels. That’s partly why they were invented. You’re just going to have to deal with that.

Men: you are freaking awesome for wearing high heeled shoes, do not be ashamed, do not let anyone tell you otherwise. David Bowie rocked platforms better than 90% of the Spice Girls. (Ginger is the 10%). Maybe if you’re in the mob or the military you should save the heels, but if you’re in your room pretending to be Marc Bolan or you’re going to a disco themed club, or whatever kids do, just wear them and WITH EYELINER. Because who gives a fuck. Come at me, go for it, Fun. says that we are young and we’re supposed to set things on fire, or something.

GUYS WHO ROCK PLATFORMS, HOLLA AT ME IN THE COMMENTS. Women in high heels, you too. This is a shoe post, I don’t even care, I love shoes, we all love shoes, let’s just deal with it.

For more info on Foot Petals (they make the best shoe inserts and shoe cushions that I’ve found so far) check it:

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You’re in a new town.

Aug

2012

Photo by me.

I am now certain that I miss New York city, though it’s sweaty as monkeys in a suitcase out here. Before I can even make it outside I’m all balmy and my hair is limp. I love this city, but jeez New York, calm your tits.

Here’s where my inner Patrick Bateman comes out: you’ll know I’ve given up on life if I move to Brooklyn. I do not adore Brooklyn. It’s far and empty and spooky at night and nothing is open and there’s no cabs. And hark, nature’s cruel joke — all of my friends, save one (love you Kelly) have moved to Brooklyn since I was last here. Which was only a year ago. All of them. Just the whole lot, off to Brooklyn. My dad lives in Manhattan. Do you not understand my unyielding pain here? I’m faced with a long subway ride or a $20 cab fare. This is debilitating and even thinking about it makes me want to place one of my childlike chubby fingers to my temple and let a single tear fall from my sweaty cheek.

I get it — Brooklyn is cheaper than Manhattan. At least that’s what you’re all telling me. Though I’m not convinced. But some of you insist that you live in Brooklyn because Brooklyn is better, which is hilarious. That’s like insisting that “Home Alone 3” is the best of all of the “Home Alone” films. Don’t insult me, comrade.

Yes, I am an asshole. I totally get that. But Oh My Kanye I hate having to haul ass to Brooklyn. You’re all worth it, I’m not saying that. But there’s nothing nearly as awesome where you live that we couldn’t do here in Real New York. Trust me, we can find your beloved independent vegan coffee guitar store here in the city. Your homemade soda shop/tattoo parlor. Your 80’s themed organic whiskey bar. We have those here too. I swear. And we have more. And we have transportation that will take you there.

Again, I’m an asshole.

And I live in Silver Lake/Los Feliz so I get it. I get wanting to live in a cool area where you can walk everywhere, where all your friends live, and where rent is cheaper than somewhere else more glamorous. I’m being a dick and a half, because where I live I can rent a one bedroom for half of what you rent in NYC for a studio. New York rent is crazy. So we all do what we can, and we’re all lucky to live in any of these places.

It’s really hot here.

I’m all not all cynical snobbery though. I’ve had some very lovely evenings in Brooklyn since I’ve been here. Very wonderful. Magical, even. Like Truman Capote shit. I love all of you BK friends. I just wished you lived closer. So, literally and figuratively, come at me.

This post is brought to you by UMoveFree. See UMoveFree reviews for testimonials.

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Young man, are you listening to me?

Jul

2012

You know that awkward moment when the line you gave someone else is now the line that’s being given to you? Ouch, that smarts! Maybe it’s not an exact line, but a routine. That thing you do where instead of saying that you really want to say, you say something far, far more neutral. And you’ve done it, so you know what it looks like, and thus when someone does it to you, it’s a special sort of mindfuck.

It’s so hard, you know? It’s so hard to just “be yourself” but without being your fully realized annoying self. If I was really being myself I would say exactly what was on my mind and what I wanted to happen and how I really feel about Wes Anderson, or whatever is supposed to matter. In the beginning of anything, a new job, a new relationship — friendship or otherwise — don’t you just want to sit that person down and say, “Okay, here is where I want this to go and here’s what I think and feel about you, so let’s not waste each others’ youth here”? I know I do. But that kills the fun of it, apparently.

So we don’t do that. We do what we’re supposed to do. If we’re not interested, we’re nice anyway. If we are interested, we mute our interest. So because of this, it’s hard to tell who is sincere anymore and who isn’t. Especially since the majority of our interaction comes from texting. Women are stellar at taking apart text messages, like we’re excavating a tomb, trying to find the hidden meaning in everything, leaving nothing undiscovered. For example: “Me too” — I could take that apart in six different ways. Logically, I know that that’s insane. I know that the only thing to read there is two words, and anything else is something I’m making up. Pure fiction.

I don’t want to do this. I really don’t. So let’s not, okay? We’re all in this together. Can we all agree to drop the pretense or is that too frightening? Let’s figure something out.

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I does what I does.

Jul

2012

Why is it so hard for me to do this? Is it depression? Laziness? Is it a desire to seem deep and mysterious, sitting my dark apartment with wine and this melancholy mix (or something) as my soundtrack? And please feel free to suggest songs that I can add to it, because I welcome everything now.

I do not understand why I choose to not do things and choose to do others. The easiest way to fail is to do what you have always done. Unless of course you have been doing well. Soaring over our heads. If you are doing well, and I hope that you are, you should tell me how you are doing it. But in a way that is not a lecture. In school when I had to sit in lectures I would draw cartoons of pigs in my notebook. Ask Dave, he will tell you that it is true. I do not know if Dave is even reading this. But if he is, he will vouch for me. My pig doodles are what started our friendship. I did not know this until years later.

Any great writer, artist, musician, even some actors, reached the levels we dream of because of talent, hard work, and discipline. I used to have all of those things. I believe that I still have talent, in the way that people believe in The Secret. There is a strange comfort in sitting here, thinking about wasting my talent in this dark old apartment, staring at the mess that is on this table I am typing on. I wish that computer keyboards clacked louder. That would be an improvement for struggling writers everywhere. It’s hearing the click of those keys that convinces us that we are working. The “CLICK CLICK FUCK YOU CLICK CLICK CLANG FUCK OFF CLACK CLACK” that comes with the hard press and release of old keyboard keys of Fitzgerald typewriters and 90’s computers.

I want to be Fiona Apple.

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THANKS FOR THE TWITTER FOLLOWERS, THIS ONE IS FOR YOU GUYS.

Jul

2012

Thanks to you guys I broke 5k followers on Twitter! Thanks for following me, I love you all, even the ones who say mean things, and that’s not many. I made this video for you to say thanks. Keep it real, okay? xo.

Subscribe to my YouTube account, if you want! http://www.youtube.com/theapocalypstick

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I hate being single.

Jul

2012

In case you haven’t seen it yet, here’s my video on how I’m coping.

I hate being single. I just hate it. I understand why people don’t understand why I hate it. I suppose that single = freedom. What it means to me is, “Fuck, now I have to do this shit all over again? Now when I’m at a party or a bar I have to obsessively wonder if that cute guy is single or not? And, if he is single, if I should say hi? Or maybe we have mutual friends on Facebook? And what if that other guy I sort of like doesn’t text me back, or what if he does and the text is misleading? Or what if I put the ball in his court? And who is going to go with me to Sylvia’s party with me next Friday?” Fuck. This. Shit.

So I’m not doing it anymore. I am not going to care. If you don’t text me that’s because you’re an idiot, and you have that right, but I’ll just move on. I really don’t give a sack anymore. I don’t have the energy. I’m out, Jerry!

Note: this is not me being self-pitying or hinting at anything. In other words, do not ask me out. I’m not saying that I’m awesome and that leagues of extraordinary gentleman are clamoring to ask me out. I’m saying, I really, really don’t feel like doing this, okay? Don’t ask me out. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to date. To try to get to know someone again. To try to care. That sounds cold, but I don’t mean it that way. It’s more of an observation as though I were observing myself. “Wow Almie, it sure is time consuming trying to get out of singletown.”

If I wanted a boyfriend right now, I could probably get one right now. But I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to be with someone just because I’m not currently with anyone. Like if I’m looking for a nice winter coat I’m not going to grab a parka from Wet Seal. That shit’s going to fall apart in five weeks. Just like a relationship.

If you liked this post, check out What we don’t tell, RED FLAGS, and WOST DATES EVER.

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