Just Another Hot Girl Spam Email
"mama kudos for opening this, for reading."
Here I am. In your emails. Once again. Maybe sandwiched between your phone bill reminder and the discount code for Sephora’s Savings Event. At least I am not in your inbox to ask you for money… yet. Guys, it turns out that I haven’t hit VIB status this year. Might as well jump off a bridge and end it now!!
Not that anyone was beating down my door for a new Like Like post, but it’s taken me a while to emotionally and creatively rebound from my last Deceased-Dad-Themed™️ newsletter. In the time between that post and now, I got the perfect amount of encouragement and space to let that be its own thing/not freak out and delete it. Thank you for reading that, if you did.
There has also been one other major distraction that has had me in a death grip since late January. Please see Exhibit A.
Exhibit A for ACOTAR (A Court of Thorns and Roses series).
I caught sight of the first book in Sarah J. Maas’ series in Brooklyn’s viral bookstore, The Ripped Bodice, and caved. I stayed up until 2 am that night snorting lines of horny fantasy. I was late to the party on this series, apparently, but I am kind of thankful for it. Without interruption, I was able to mainline 5,000+ pages in a few weeks. In those few weeks, I considered leaving my wingless, kingdomless husband because he calls me “sweetheart” and not “darling”.
It was giving lesser faerie.
Getting so sucked into ACOTAR took a toll on my productivity, but weirdly, I needed it to cement something important which is that I most definitely want to write fiction?? Although it is quite tempting, I probably won’t write about hot 500-year-old faeries with disorganized attachment issues but what I do want to write is a story that will make someone buy a book-light on Amazon, which is what I had to do in conjunction with an optometrist visit by the time I got to THE Chapter 55 of ACOMAF because I felt like I was going cross-eyed from reading so much, so fast.
Fuck, I want to write something so good that I both stimulate commerce and make people go blind.
How I am going to this in between doing labor 40 hours a week to afford tchotchkes and used handbags, being addicted to reality TV, and being a lazy troll with an attention deficit disorder - I don’t know!! Forget anything written in this paragraph and the one above it for the next 5-10 years.
I have been thinking a lot about the written word and Alison Roman’s own Substack, which got hacked a week or two ago. Her hacked newsletter was a reminder that these trendy methods of communication and storytelling can become obsolete so fast, that this platform is temporary and fallible and full of readers ready to jump ship once they realize that this is just hot girl spam. But books are forever.
Is it wrong to want my hot girl spam to live on forever in the Huntington Library, bound in crispy leather and protected by a white lady with a master’s degree in information science? Books are tangible and collectible and have a direct correlation to the respect you earn when someone walks into your house for the first time.
Anyway, despite my inability to forgive her for being mean to Marie Kondo, I like Alison Roman’s Substack. Her last one was about Paris and everything she ate. Her travel advice is solid: listen to everyone’s advice about visiting a place but also ignore hers and everyone else’s travel advice completely. Everyone is in Paris right now, except for me and I famously have had a very chill and not-at-all-weird relationship with the city of lights! I love/loved Paris so much that I tried getting a visa to live there in 2016 through PACS-ing with a comedian who worked at a fish and chips restaurant called The Sunken Chip. Needless to say, it did not work out, but it’s my prerogative to continue to romanticize the city where a man punched me in the face outside of a disco in Montemarte at 3 am.
My Travel Advice for Anywhere That No One Asked For ™️ is that if you are a cute girl at a bar and go outside to ask a group of men for a cigarette in an American accent, you are asking for trouble. Whether it’s the good or bad kind is up to fate and the kindness of onlookers. The first time I did it, a doe-eyed bartender named Matthieu fell madly in love with me for 48 hours (brag) and the last time I did it, I got a right hook to the jaw by an kidnapper (also a brag because I miraculously escaped). Being a girl and asking for “un briquet” is a fun way to roll the dice on life and love.
This is the energy I bring whenever I talk about Paris:
I digress.
Maybe I’ll write a book about being a delusional 25-year-old American girl with a passport. It’d be like if Hunter S. Thompson wrote Passport 2 Paris or if someone gave Emily from Paris a few Xanax.
Anyway. I love faerie smut.
ciao!
“It was giving lesser faerie” is now my go to insult