If it drips on marble, it’s been used correctly. A Persian rug might be tolerable — if it’s antique, handwoven, from Isfahan or Qom. The kind you step over, never on. But even that? It absorbs everything: Scotch, sweat, semen, the iron bite of something dying. The fibers remember.
4:26 p.m. The mime. The girl. The performance. I remember every second of it. Not because it was beautiful. Because it was a grotesque. He was dressed entirely in white—painted face, gloves, beret—the whole Chaplin-esque fantasy. She looked like she worked in fashion, maybe Calvin Klein,
I ask: 1. What time are we meeting? 2. Did you book the penthouse at The Carlyle? 3. Is the Russian still coming? . . Three simple fucking questions. . . I number the questions. I space the lines. I isolate the variables so even a moderately intelligent goldfish could process it. . . They answer:
It’s brash. It’s glamorous. It’s cocaine in sonic form—throbbing synths, manic energy, a sneer disguised as a chorus. It's not just a song—it’s a runway strut through apocalypse, wearing sequined arrogance and Revlon regret. Think neon sweat. Think mirrored trays. Think Duran
Department of Transportation New York City Dear [REDACTED], I am writing as a concerned resident and property owner in Manhattan who values the delicate balance of urban elegance and civic responsibility. Unfortunately, recent developments—specifically the unchecked proliferation of bicycle lanes and the accompanying swarm of amateur cyclists—have deeply
I’m walking back from a facial at Clinique La Prairie, just off Park, dressed impeccably—Zegna, suede Tod’s, skin dewy like an oil painting. A cyclist blows through a red light. Not a yellow—a red. The kind of red that’s practically begging for a tragedy.
That sounds... inefficient. Cloistering oneself in a closet like some kind of paranoid rodent, powdering your nose in the dark? Pathetic. If you're going to engage in anything illicit—drug use, infidelity, or something more elaborate—you don't do it hiding in a closet. You take
22:32 Halfway through the meal, a man at the next table—a hedge fund manager with cheek implants and a dermal filler addiction—collapsed face-first into his agnolotti del plin. People clapped. They thought it was performance art.
The moment you see a choker, say, a mid-tier cocktail bar in SoHo or on a girl ordering a cucumber martini at Embargo... you know. Something’s off. It’s never just an accessory. It’s a warning sign. Like an Hermes tie on a man who still uses a
Subject: re: Acoustic Integrity Standards From: [REDACTED] To: [REDACTED] Date: Tuesday, April X, XXXX at 9:42:32 AM Harlan— We’ve reached the point of no return. I’m no longer willing to debate with men in tool belts about whether a bathroom should be soundproofed to suppress a
Christie’s, Modern Art Auction. Not because I need another Warhol; I hate Warhol—but because absence would be suspicious. Mylène’s beside me in a Ralph Rucci silk double-faced crepe gown from 2011, whispering commentary that sounds like desire but is appraisal.
It’s performative generosity—a hollow gesture meant to signal empathy, but really it’s just another way for nouveau to feel morally superior while they nibble on uni toast and sip Sancerre. The very concept of tipping is beneath anyone who owns cufflinks from Charvet or knows the difference