Welcome to MR’s Sunday Scaries Diaries, where haunted humans chronicle their end-of-the-weekend terrors (plus the events that led up to them), hopefully to make all of us feel a little less alone in the fetal position come Monday morning.
I didn’t realize how pathetic my weekends are until I had to chronicle the events of a Sunday and reflect on the Saturday that preceded it (when I did, pretty much, the same stuff give or take an arm and lip wax). It’s okay, though, I am who I am and if I want to use baby carrots as a procrastination mechanism, than so be it! I forgive myself.
I wake up, get up, pee, get back in bed, notice that I have put up a wall made from a pillow that stands between Abie and me.
Abie asks about the wall, I tell him if Trump can build one, so can I (I’m protecting myself against his breath. Mine’s not any better, but I don’t sleep with my mouth open).
Now I’m out of bed for good. I go to the bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth and make our bed. Abie is meditating and we will likely go for breakfast in 20 minutes when he’s done. I want scra–no, waffles.
Should I put on a lewk?
We’re at Jack’s Wife Freda and I’m really excited to drink coffee. There are so many productive things that I can to do today, such as write a story (an idea came to me last night while I was watching the Tony Robbins documentary), record this week’s episode of Monocycle (maybe next week’s too if I am feeling ambitious) and market research for a bunch of stories I need to style this week but I really, really don’t want to confront any of it.
I CAN DO ANYTHING. I CAN DO EVERYTHING. (The caffeine kicked in.) I BETTER GET HOME AND PROVE MY WORTH. I’m also reading this story in the Style section of The New York Times right now — the front cover is about breaking up with Twitter and on the inside page, there’s a piece about personal newsletters usurping blogs or something. I am starting to feel a strange sort of media fatigue; I’m not sure if it’s born out of what has seemed like a hundred years of election coverage, or if there is just too much that is too scattered and choice is paralyzing me but — hey! My waffles are here.
Is that a story?
I forgot to pick up almond butter from the supermarket yesterday, so I guess I’ll do that now. In case you’re wondering, the brand of ‘butter that I get is called Nuttzo and it is fucking nutzo. As in, so good, it’s nutzo.
I got home around 10:50, retreated to the blue velvet couch where Abie is sitting and doing weird stuff in Excel (my nightmare) and started writing a story called “What Are You Looking For?” It’s about media fatigue, obviously. I’m also writing this, in real time. Abie just looked over my shoulder and said, “Hey, why are you writing mean things about me?” I explained that everyone struggles with bad morning breath.
Back to writing — the thing about Sunday Scaries is that the only way to make them go away is to do a bunch of shit you really don’t want to. Like write stories on a Sunday after you’ve just spent the greater half of a week doing exactly that. I just found a chewed piece of gum inside my iPhone case, by the way.
Things that are currently on my mind: pre-Thanksgiving burnout (is that a story?), an incredible interview I read yesterday between Raf Simons and Miuccia Prada in this quarter’s issue of System Magazine (they had this awesome idea about designing each other’s collections one season, which made me really want Team MR to take over a magazine for a month, or something), and what kind of stories we should be serving to the ~community~ following Trump’s election. Should I record Monocycle now or later?
I’m about to turn the editorial team on its head and e-mail them with this !surprise! Monday morning inclusion.
Abie is out of Excel, wants to go for a walk. It is like, 60 degrees out and sunny. I am down. In leggings and a headband thank you very much.
This walk has turned into lunch break at Peacefood Cafe (very delicious vegan place on 11th and University). I was trying to avoid this because I am still so damn full from breakfast. (Fine, in addition to breakfast, I ate an entire bag of licorice.)
Healthy licorice! Made not with sugar, but molasses, which apparently is really good for a woman’s iron levels. I don’t know, Amelia told me that and you can only really count on 16% of what she says.
I stop for soft serve.
I’m happier than it seems!
Walk concludes. And here’s what I still have to do today: finish market research that was due on Friday for a style story we are running in partnership with AG on how to wear denim to a holiday party without looking like, you know, you’re wearing denim. We’re also working on the world’s greatest gift guide and that motherfucker will require a pretty large loot of product that Amelia and I are going to have to pick. And I’m styling a piece on how to wear berets, which is being shot tomorrow morning, and have another bit on graphic T-shirts being shot later this week. Working peripherally in fashion (I say peripherally because the fashion content is really only like, 20% of what we do) is awesome most days because STUFF is my escape. I genuinely use it to get out of my head, but man, I feel like there are other, great, diverse style opinions out there!!!! If you want to be a market editor at Man Repeller and also kind of know how to write, can you send me a telegram?
I still have to record Monocycle.
I just bought Dries Van Noten jeans from Vestiaire Collective for $85. I have wanted these since like 2009. What a cool find.
But have I completed any of the necessary market work? Of course not. I think I’ll eat a carrot.
A handful of carrots. With…
We’re going to a soba noodle place on Kenmare and Elizabeth for dinner with two of our friends (I forgot how to socialize, we’ll see what happens tonight). Supposed to meet at 6:30. I’ll have to stop at the office at pick up the berets for tomorrow morning’s shoot, too.
Dinner was awesome, I am super nauseous. How many soba noodles are too many? Heading into the office, just a block away now.
I did the market work. I did not record Monocycle. I’m going home. I’m going to bed. I hate Sundays.
Is that a story?
Illustration by Emily Zirimis.