...I Was A Teenage Fag-Hag
 

 
The story of a NYU student struggling to survive in a world where the shoes are pricey, the IDs are fake, and straight men don't seem to exist.
 
 
   
 
Tuesday, May 14, 2002
 
It's my second-to-last night in Rubin, and I'm feeling very down about the prospect of moving out. While everyone else crammed for finals, I watched two movies in a row on my computer, both of which made me cry. I'm not sure if it's because the movies were actually sad (no one important in John Q actually died, after all) or if I'm just in a sentimental mood. Because I stopped taking birth control I'm on my period for the first time in almost eight months, which is kind of a relief after the fiasco at Dave's apartment, but it's also depressing for some reason - a punctuation of my first year of college, of slutting around and the like. I also dyed my hair back to its original uninspiring brown, having realized that my latest set of highlights was hideous. Interestingly, everyone who noticed agreed that the highlights were bad, but had somehow neglected to tell me this when I first got them. Sometimes I miss Cortney's tactless way of telling me the truth! Still, I already kind of miss being blonde. I think the first thing I'll do when I get back to Seattle is find Joel, the cool stylist who put up with me even through my questionable middle school years, and tell him he can finally do something fun with my hair. I'm sitting at my computer smoking what will hopefully be the last pack of cigarettes I'll ever buy (I'm quitting when I go home), using the martini glass I purloined from Madame X as an ashtray. No more smoking! No more casual sex! How will I survive the summer?

 

 
   
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