Real talk: I think you’re a liar. A very, very convenient liar. I can call you that because we’re all in the same club. Because the thing is, when you’re out there doing creative work, and new work, and work that has no manager, no support team, no pat on the back, there are days when you will wake up and be convinced that you’re a total fuck up; that you’re not any good; that you’re in over your head;
Jesus, do you feel that? *Not a direct quote from Donald Trump I was scrolling through my Twitter feed, as one does on a Thursday night when they’ve just made themselves a pot of coffee in a feeble attempt to NOT keep the sleep schedule of an eighty year old choir member, and there it was, all over the place: The sense that everybody is entirely bullshitting you. And, you know, I’m not entirely sure who I’d like to
Her name began with an H. I brought the card down to the hotel lobby with a little swing in my pulse—not because I was nervous to give it to her, although in retrospect, maybe I was. I didn’t want it to seem like I was bribing her. (Or, you know, ASKING FOR SEX.) “My first Kate Spade!” she exclaimed, swinging the lid off the round pink and orange box with the same overflowing enthusiasm that had been the very
Once upon a time, I took Home Ec in high school, which is hilarious, because based on tweets like these, I must have failed: I tweeted that out a couple of days after Googling “How to trick your mother-in-law into thinking canned tomato sauce is homemade,” which inevitably led me into chopping, like, four fucking onions with a butter knife and spooning an entire cup of sugar into the pot, because if a spoonful of sugar helps the
Ohhhhh, fucking shit. Those are kind of the words I want to say all the time, except if I did say them all the time, I’m pretty sure I’d start to get sick of them, like one does after eating tuna fish every day (not like I’d know anything about that) and that’s really my greatest fear, really: Lackluster profanities. I mean, talk about losing the will to live. And then there are other reasons, of course, like the time
Let me tell you what: American women may have Victoria’s Secret, but Italian women have another secret altogether. You know it by the way she holds her head a little higher than yours, eyes on fire, gliding down the god damn sidewalk as if her and Mother Nature were tag teaming. It is not just confidence—though confidence is plainly written across her shoulders—nor arrogance, judging by the way she laughs with her entire body alongside her friends in the
Being in business for yourself requires three things. A sense of discipline. A sense of self. And a motherfucking tube of lipstick. When you run a business, NOTHING about your workday looks like anybody else’s, and soon it follows that nothing about your life looks very much like anybody else’s, either. Late nights. Unusual schedules. Working more than everybody you know. Feast and famine. Elation and despair. Freedom on a Monday. Shackles on a Sunday. And your hilarious diet, which
[x_blockquote type=”center”]I take it as an insult when somebody calls me The N Word: Nice.[/x_blockquote] Out of 100,000 adjectives in the English language, if the best you can come up with is nice, then I’m doing something wrong. It’s like spending Thanksgiving Day ripping out gizzards and mashing actual potatoes, only to be told that the food is “very good, thanks.” VERY GOOD, THANKS? What is this, a $5 blowjob? Now that I’ve taken the blog to all new inappropriate
The dead horse of the decade is the target customer. You’re asked to create personas. Put yourself in their shoes bras. Get inside their head. Imagine what’s keeping them up at 3 o’clock in the morning. (For the record, it’s that their ass is getting fat and they totally forgot to make cookies for their kid’s bake sale.) So there you went, thinking about everything from the target customer’s perspective. What will they want? What will they think? What will
Unfuckwithable. If you’re contemplating themes for the New Year, I highly recommend borrowing this one. Rolls right off the tongue and deep dives directly into your ovaries. But more importantly? We need this. We need this because there are always going to be days—weeks, months, years—where everything feels hard. There are always going to be people who do wrong by you, emails you don’t want to answer, decisions you don’t know how to make, money you don’t know where to
