cvxn

I'm Hez. please enjoy my internets!
@Hez on twitter | cvxn on instagram/statigram
stuff I've written for HelloGiggles is here
contact me here or just ask me anything

lifeaquatic:

simone-eastman:

Hats of Stevie Nicks #2.

Important new web series.

Does Emily Gould know about this? I feel like there should be a Stevie bat signal for times like these.

lifeaquatic:

simone-eastman:

Hats of Stevie Nicks #2.

Important new web series.

Does Emily Gould know about this? I feel like there should be a Stevie bat signal for times like these.

(Source: dear-splenda)

“… there is another part of me that just can’t get past being annoyed that a generation of talented twenty- and thirty-somethings with years of working at dead magazines and newspapers under their belts are unemployed, quasi-employed, and spinning their wheels on Tumblr because the future belongs to people who have never not had an email address.”

Emily Gould, An Open Letter to Tavi Gevinson and Jane Pratt on The Hairpin

[And let’s not forget about us dewiness-impaired forty-somethings!]

“Later, a developmentally disabled boy came over and started talking to us about the game of backgammon we were playing and I think that was the moment when I became disenchanted with the nude beach.”

Emily Gould (!!!)

You know, I’m not picky. Quotes like this are pretty much all I need from my internet on a given day.

zorica:

thingsiatethatilove:

People might care about your book but the stark fact of the matter is that no one will ever care about your book more than you do.  I think that is the secret, crazy desire in the heart of every author, male and female: to know what being entirely comprehended feels like, to be so thoroughly and intimately understood.  

If you replace “book” with “wedding”/”baby”/”performance”/”cat” and “author” with “bride”/”parent”/”dancer”/”insane person” you see how we’re all kind of doing the same thing here. Our things matter to us and if they matter to other people too then we get that delicious fairy-tale feeling that the whole world really does want us to make it to the ball on time.
It can be really hard to care enough about someone else’s book/baby shower to give it some of your time. It’s even harder to then go another step and in addition give it what I think of as a possessive welcome — read that book like you wrote it, attend that baby shower like it was your own baby about to be born. So far I’ve found that this is incomparably more satisfying than being the one at the center of the event. Once you’ve invested in someone’s something, not from the position of “I want to support this person” but from the position of “I have at least tried to grasp the essence of why this is meaningful to this person and am relating to it from a place of emotion and vulnerability” you can celebrate really honestly but without any of the hang-ups that come with being the epicenter of “something big.” You get to dance under the laurels of glory but you don’t have to schlep them home, or notice that they’re kind of falling apart, or see that your friends left the price tag on and they were a different price than you would have paid.
I always kind of hate someone else’s wedding/poetry reading/doggy birthday. And then I remember that if I do it right it’s going to be better than any great party ever given in my honor because there’s no need for me to be compromised in the spirit of my attendance. There’s only good for me to do in being real about what I support and how I support it.
As for being supported? It sucks because even when I can tell people are being real exactly as I just described I don’t fucking trust it because trust is an addictive substance and if I take even one taste it could be years before I wake up from the blackout to realize I’ve fallen off the wagon again. I don’t particularly want to dress up another ruined happiness, I’ve just got this one looking the way I like it.

"HOW YOUR SNARK-FREE SAUSAGE GETS MADE"

zorica:

thingsiatethatilove:

People might care about your book but the stark fact of the matter is that no one will ever care about your book more than you do.  I think that is the secret, crazy desire in the heart of every author, male and female: to know what being entirely comprehended feels like, to be so thoroughly and intimately understood.  

If you replace “book” with “wedding”/”baby”/”performance”/”cat” and “author” with “bride”/”parent”/”dancer”/”insane person” you see how we’re all kind of doing the same thing here. Our things matter to us and if they matter to other people too then we get that delicious fairy-tale feeling that the whole world really does want us to make it to the ball on time.

It can be really hard to care enough about someone else’s book/baby shower to give it some of your time. It’s even harder to then go another step and in addition give it what I think of as a possessive welcome — read that book like you wrote it, attend that baby shower like it was your own baby about to be born. So far I’ve found that this is incomparably more satisfying than being the one at the center of the event. Once you’ve invested in someone’s something, not from the position of “I want to support this person” but from the position of “I have at least tried to grasp the essence of why this is meaningful to this person and am relating to it from a place of emotion and vulnerability” you can celebrate really honestly but without any of the hang-ups that come with being the epicenter of “something big.” You get to dance under the laurels of glory but you don’t have to schlep them home, or notice that they’re kind of falling apart, or see that your friends left the price tag on and they were a different price than you would have paid.

I always kind of hate someone else’s wedding/poetry reading/doggy birthday. And then I remember that if I do it right it’s going to be better than any great party ever given in my honor because there’s no need for me to be compromised in the spirit of my attendance. There’s only good for me to do in being real about what I support and how I support it.

As for being supported? It sucks because even when I can tell people are being real exactly as I just described I don’t fucking trust it because trust is an addictive substance and if I take even one taste it could be years before I wake up from the blackout to realize I’ve fallen off the wagon again. I don’t particularly want to dress up another ruined happiness, I’ve just got this one looking the way I like it.

"HOW YOUR SNARK-FREE SAUSAGE GETS MADE"

(Source: emilygould)

The recipe for a very pleasant Saturday morning.
I might even let myself finish it today.

The recipe for a very pleasant Saturday morning.

I might even let myself finish it today.

thingsiatethatilove:

In other news of bad decisions that happened near Union Square today:
In the Fresh store, I wandered over to the central table where these fragrances were displayed.  It was near closing time and at first it seemed like no one wanted to deal with another customer but then a nice surfer type Fresh employee stationed himself near the table as I spritzed and began to offer helpful information. 
From him, I learned that Eat, Pray, Love starring Julia Roberts is based on a book about a woman’s travels through three countries and that the movie is made by Sony.  He also told me that each fragrance smells like a different country.  He watched me expectantly as I smelled the fragrances and so I felt I had to offer some kind of opinions or maybe pretend I was having a hard time choosing between them. 
Probably this is the time to mention that I’d had some drinks. 
“This one is very sweet!  You’d think it would smell like pizza,” I said about Eat, which is meant to evoke the smell of Italy, and which smells like a lemon dipped in burning sugar. 
“Ha ha, well, it does have notes of basil,” said the guy, who deserves a raise.
Pray (India) smelled like incense.  Love (Bali) smelled like Malibu rum but for some reason I felt I had to choose one of the perfumes to spritz all over myself, so I did.  Over the course of the rest of the evening Love combined with the smell of metabolizing alcohol in a truly vile way.  Several times I asked people to smell me to confirm that I smelled terrible (not a lot of takers).
“Are you going to see the movie?” the Fresh guy asked as I left.  “Only if someone pays me!” I said.  “Ha, you’d have to be some kind of movie critic!” he said.  “You’re right, I’m not a movie critic,” I admitted.  (“I’m a universe critic” I said in my mind.)

This, obvs.

thingsiatethatilove:

In other news of bad decisions that happened near Union Square today:

In the Fresh store, I wandered over to the central table where these fragrances were displayed.  It was near closing time and at first it seemed like no one wanted to deal with another customer but then a nice surfer type Fresh employee stationed himself near the table as I spritzed and began to offer helpful information. 

From him, I learned that Eat, Pray, Love starring Julia Roberts is based on a book about a woman’s travels through three countries and that the movie is made by Sony.  He also told me that each fragrance smells like a different country.  He watched me expectantly as I smelled the fragrances and so I felt I had to offer some kind of opinions or maybe pretend I was having a hard time choosing between them. 

Probably this is the time to mention that I’d had some drinks. 

“This one is very sweet!  You’d think it would smell like pizza,” I said about Eat, which is meant to evoke the smell of Italy, and which smells like a lemon dipped in burning sugar. 

“Ha ha, well, it does have notes of basil,” said the guy, who deserves a raise.

Pray (India) smelled like incense.  Love (Bali) smelled like Malibu rum but for some reason I felt I had to choose one of the perfumes to spritz all over myself, so I did.  Over the course of the rest of the evening Love combined with the smell of metabolizing alcohol in a truly vile way.  Several times I asked people to smell me to confirm that I smelled terrible (not a lot of takers).

“Are you going to see the movie?” the Fresh guy asked as I left.  “Only if someone pays me!” I said.  “Ha, you’d have to be some kind of movie critic!” he said.  “You’re right, I’m not a movie critic,” I admitted.  (“I’m a universe critic” I said in my mind.)

This, obvs.

I didn’t actually get any birthday “presents” this year (other than drinks from friends and cash from my folks)… except for this one I sort of chose for myself.

Pretty stoked right now to have this in my hot little hands.

Thanks, interfriend.

"Hez: A package has arrived for you from Emily Gould, Brooklyn NY"

I would have replied to my dad with “ZOMG!” but since he already saved Em’s NYT Mag for me, I am hopeful he’s going to “get it.”

Theme by paulstraw.