Remember that time last year when I was so poor that I invented an alias for myself (Mathilde Glory) and tried to sell my worn underwear on Craigslist? I don’t mean just “worn” though. I mean straight-up USED. I tried selling freelance and through a panties-pimp, but it ended up that in exchange for my throw-away Ross skivvies, I had to meet my creeps face-to-face and hand them over in person. Emphasis on the word “hand,” because there’s pretty much no way in hell I could have avoided touching the hand that would later touch the ghost of my bathingsuit parts through the gauze of a pastel floral pattern, so you can probably understand why I balked. Long story short: Selling panties was a pipedream, so I moved to Washington, DC and got a real job instead. Said real job is propelling me towards restaurant ownership and the eventual establishment of undies-vending machines so that pervs can have their pervy, and starving students can keep their personal effects. If I hadn’t been so raging drunk 75% of the time I’m not working, I might have even taken some good photos to show what it’s like in DC.
Oh wait, jk. Went to Maine first.
Our capital’s capitol.
People here are strange. I have never seen such resilient, self-assured coiffes in my whole life–like moving, perfect sculptures.
That is compared to my pal, Courtney, who also lives here and is more like a moving trainwreck than a moving sculpture.
In keeping with my proclivities I am going to get fat here too.
And finally come out of the closet (but not in California, those Prop. 8 assholes).
Joe Ferrell and the Morning Benders came to DC to play a show at one of our three venues.
For Hallie, again.
These are the people live with; they are generally awesome.
A murder of crows.
The best food here is at the bars or the pupuserias.
A murderous murder of crows.
My roommate, Bobbie. She is an awesome public librarian who is mad into kickball, smarts, and brunch.
Columbia Heights has some off-the-chain shaved ice with tamarind syrup.
We went to Deerhunter on the night of The Election and did away with the last of our California greens beforehand.
We danced, punched a cunt in the back of the head, and got licked by a slut. Unfortunately, did not document the latter two events.
Then we went outside, and this sexy dude with no shirt and a lot of sexy told us that Obama won!
This dude is sexy too.
Site of the 1968 riots.
We walked a couple miles to the White House in the pouring rain.
There were thousands of people dancing, yelling, running, cheering, and high-fiving their ways down the avenues to Lafayette Square. A lot of folks were crying inconsolably from relief, and it was pretty much the exact opposite of being in Berkeley in 2004.
Did I mention we got (sexy) rained on?
These girls eventually joined the saturated drum circle right before the crowd turned into a suffocating stampede.
Everyone was singing in front of the White House. “Fuck You” chants to W. were drowned out by the “Na na na na, hey hey, goodbye” song and “We are the Champions.”
Courtney topped off the epicness by peeing upon a bank.