I'm trying out signing my work emails with "Cheers,". I'm going for kind of a dignified, "You should know I'm going out of my way to write you this email but hey I'm happy to do it, because I'm just that kind of girl" kind of vibe. So naturally, I thought "England. Bingo."

To be honest it's not really working for me. it doesn't feel right. Last time I checked, since I started my job in 2015, I had sent some 4,000 + emails (and yes, I check. I like knowing my stats). For a while I was using "Best," which now that I'm thinking about it also feels very British. I try not to use "Thank you" to end my emails, because then I get into the habit of saying "Thank you" even when the email was just to provide information and there is nothing to thank anyone for.

If I look to my higher up colleagues from over the years, I should just omit the closing entirely. Don't even sign my name. In fact, don't even address it. And spell a few words incorrectly. If I'm feeling really feisty I could even put the question as the subject line and leave the body of the email completely naked. But I know you have to earn that level of not giving a fuck.

Which brings me to my Text Of The Day (heretofore known as the "TOTD", in case this becomes a bit):

Time: 9:00 PM EST
From: <Not saved in my phone>
Message: Do you like getting head

Context: (oh, do you need context? FINE) I went to Union Pool a couple of months ago with Julie (sister), as you do. A guy came up and hit on me. He got my number, we had coffee once, which was decent. He asked me to hang out a couple of days later, on a Saturday at 9PM. Less than an hour before I was supposed to meet him, he blew me off. When I gave him a hard time (because nope.) his response was "My bad. <five minute pause> It's still mad early though."

Now I have to give him credit for the "mad early" thing because it was hilarious in that not on purpose way and now it's how my friends and I refer to bullshit non-excuses people give for things (i.e., "Yo did you eat all of my cereal?" "My bad. It's still mad early though.")

But that was that, until today. Two months later. A Thursday evening. "Do you like getting head" A text like this pisses me off because there are SO MANY HILARIOUS AND WTF-ISH THINGS I WANT TO RESPOND but I can't on principle because any response would be acknowledging that his non-question was something you can text someone you're not dating at all and it's nooootttttttttt.

I don't know what he wants but I'm 100% not interested. I wasn't cool with you flaking on me, but I absolutely will NOT tolerate someone denying me an opportunity to say something snarky.

I got back from Thanksgiving in Philly yesterday afternoon. The train ride back was full but not packed, we got a little bit of a lead on the crazy rush back to New York.

I'm trying to teach myself how to sew on a 1964 Singer machine that my neighbor gifted me in 2010. Over the last seven years, I've lugged it from apartment to apartment without ever really even examining it closely. It's a beast, probably 20 pounds, if we're not counting the weight of my stubbornness, which adds at least a few more. Two years ago, in a burst of DIY optimism/delusion I had a friend teach me how to thread it. Now that a full seven have passed, I figured it was time to actually put stitches in fabric. I'd like to sew something by 2028.

This time I got a full hour and a half of practice (read: sewing circles into pieces of paper) before the bobbin ran out of thread. Another hour was spent trying and failing to use the machine to rewind it, then when I turned it on its side, a teeny tiny piece fell off, which apparently was not decorative. Two more hours were spent trying to fix it using whatever internet results I could scrape together for a 53 year old sewing machine (read: sparse, and mostly erroneous). Finally I gave up, and sent pictures of the mess I made to a repair place in Queens along with a pleading and hopefully charmingly email.

Then I made a bunch of grumpy pasta* to eat in the sweatpants I had never changed out of from last night's zzzs.

Silver lining (no pun intended): the actual sewing part was super fun, before the machine breaking part and the banging of heads against walls. Very much hoping that with this skill I'll finally be able to start making my own clothing, and thus make progress towards my lifelong dream of becoming the third Olsen triplet (that's how triplets work, yeah?) Already working on subsisting on just cigarette smoke and my lost childhood, and sucking in my cheeks so my face looks hollow while thinking about upsetting things when people take pictures of me (read: poverty, being a size 6,  Lindsay Lohan's accent)

*pasta made and eaten defiantly, whilst grumpy

You guys haven't lived until you've done the holidays the way I do them!

Valentine's Day: Snuggle up with someone you like enough for now and hatewatch the Sex and the City episode where Carrie judges bisexuals

Halloween: Janky haunted house: get high in the afternoon and go to Hollister. Don't wear a costume, be in bed by 9.

Thanksgiving: Help with the cooking, then Skype your extended family in Texas and casually bring up abortion.

Christmas: Wear slouchy sweaters that are not as photogenic as you wish they were. Spend the time between Christmas and New Years having small panic attacks in your childhood bedroom. Watch old episodes of What Not To Wear with your family and gossip about how apparently Stacey and Clinton hate each other now.

It may come as a surprise to you, but my normal reaction to any basic girl mantras is an aggressive, face pulling eye roll. "Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels", "Dance like nobody's watching". Up until recently, the idea of "self care" was relegated to that category, buzzy terms that had no place in my life.

Beside finding the term très crunchy, it's alway felt like code for expensive facials where they extract both the gunk and the evil spirits of frugality from your pores, or yoga retreats where you pay a premium to pretend to be poor in a distant locale. The idea of taking care of yourself has always felt both fascinating, and financially irresponsible to me.

One of my favorite articles of all time to make fun of, which is a high honor, is this article from Elle about Amanda Chantal Bacon, the founder/owner of LA-based Moon Juice. Moon Juice is a store that purveys powders and liquids and what I assume are boxes of curated air that strike me as the health food equivalent of the Emporer's snazzy wardrobe. Amanda Chantal Bacon is its inappropriately named HBIC.

The article begins as follows:

"I usually wake up at 6:30am, and start with some Kundalini meditation and a 23-minute breath set—along with a copper cup of silver needle and calendula tea—before my son Rohan wakes."

It then proceeds to recount a full day of Baconing. Everything she puts in to her body is raw, obscure and boosts things I didn't know were in the peril of neglect- activated cashews support her brain chemistry, bee pollen feeds hormone production, quinton shots provide mineralization.

The article was quickly followed up by this gem of a Jezebel follow up.

I'm not sure if Elizabeth Gilbert ever actually used the term "self care" in Eat Pray Love, her 2006 memoir wherein her life falls apart and she responds by traveling around the world to find herself but I will denounce the book to anyone who will listen.

I can't help it. I find myself resenting the luxury of large chunks of time off of work to focus on your spiritual health. I am peeved (and, let's face it, a little jealous) about your doting husband who provides a 24/7 emotional safety net. I scoff over your regular acupuncture appointments and your insistence that you actually really enjoy your electively gluten-free diet.

These examples of excessively Instagramable "self care" are at face value harmless and hilarious, but at their worst, can be excuses for not even trying to work on yourself. They can make you feel like self care is always over the top and intimidating  and that it's easier to keep rolling along with the status quo.

I've been at this job for two years now. My first project was a monster, it required months of working really hard to finish it on time for a round of user testing. The Friday before the Monday tests, to my chagrin, there were still open bugs and assets that needed to be reviewed and implemented. Not sure how we were going to make the deadline, I begged the developer, Scotty, to come in and work with me on that Sunday.

I'll always remember being curled up on one of the couches at the office, shoes off, squinting at my computer screen. Scotty sat next to me, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Scotty is a few years younger than me, really talented and liked by every single person in the office. I can't remember what exactly we were talking about while we worked, but I said something about how I could spin some status email to our Israel office to make it sound better than the reality of the situation. His reaction, without any judgement, was just "I don't know. I try to be really truthful. It's important to me that I'm always at least trying to do the right thing."

This was a year and a half ago.

I remember at the time immediately feeling kind of stung. Like I had suggested we rob a bank and he was oh-so-gently gently reminding me that it was a felony and that it may not be the BEST idea I've ever had.

A couple of weeks ago, a close friend of mine had something really unexpectedly rough happen to her. I found out via text while at work, as I was looking over Scotty's shoulder (unabashedly back seat coding) as we rushed to fix something broken in one of the project. It stopped me in my tracks.

Later that night, my phone lit up with a text from Scotty. "How's your friend? If you ever need to talk about anything, just let me know."

This time, his good person-ness didn't immediately result in me feeling embarrassed and flawed. Or at least, not embarrassed. It just made me feel like I wanted to be better. Things over the last month or two have started slipping into better focus. It's becoming clear that my frustration and disgust with celebrity lifestyle preaching, while fair enough (and SO fun) is not actually helping anyone.

It's so easy to prioritize survival as you make your way in New York City. Throughout my 20s, my job has come first for the very simple reason that I need to pay my rent, and if the job goes away, it sets off a domino sequence of destruction: of stress, exhaustion and constant panic mode. I've eschewed the idea of active self care up until recently because I have no interest in drinking candeluna tea and I can't afford to hang out in a sensory deprivation tank.

For now, I want to try to make bettering myself a priority, for myself and for everyone around me and I can't pretend that it's impossible for me anymore. I don't need to belong to Equinox or study Reiki, there are other real actions I can take. I can drink less. I can make a point of being honest. I can be better about flossing. I can try to figure out who I am outside of my job.

I can give myself credit for the things I do well, and look at the places where I struggle with hope instead of stubborn defensiveness. I can forgive myself when I screw up and keep working.

And if all else fails I heard that Kim Kardashian is using healing crystals to get over that time she was robbed at gunpoint.

Sitting in my jeggings in our peaceful, tidy living room. Just made chocolate chip cookies from scratch, with cinnamon, marshmallows and a little bit of cayenne pepper. If you scratch your screen right here you can smell what I'm smelling. I'll wait while you orgasm.

Ok. Whew.

I've had the recipe for cookies etched on my brain since I was 8 years old, when I was the owner/operator of "Bon Mo Desserts". From age 8 to 15 I baked cookies, cakes and pies in our kitchen and sold them, at first to just our neighborhood, then, after years of hard work and cashing in on my cute kid factor, to an area very slightly bigger than our neighborhood. Crazily enough that's how I made enough money to take my mom on vacation to Jamaica, and buy my very first computer, which was gray and kind of lumpy and heavy and took up half of my room.

I was SO proud of that computer. It was the ultimate status symbol for a middle schooler in 2001, unless you weren't me, in which case status would have looked more like a Juicy Couture track suit. The desktop featured a beautifully generic picture of a Caribbean beach, courtesy of Windows 98. I can't for the life of me remember what I did on that computer besides obsessively send instant messages to people I already spent 6 hours a day with.

I've come a long way from typing things into a text box for other people to read.

Having one of those sweet Sunday mornings where I put SNL in one tab and ignore it while I write to you in a different tab.

I'm thinking maybe it's time I get some curtains... there's a family that moved into the brownstone across from my window and I've been doing a lot of getting dressed in a strategic location in my room so you can't see me through the two huge windows in my room. They moved in a year ago.

Guys. I watched Leap Year. I did it. I don't know why I did it, but I sat down and watched it from start to finish. Actually I didn't sit down, I watched most of it on my commute.

The general gist is that Amy Adams has flippy hair and lives in Boston, which is a fun little twist illustrating that this isn't like every other romcom, where she would live in New York. She's an actual terrible person who thinks she's owed a proposal by her cardiologist boyfriend, played by smarmy Ben Wyatt

When instead of a ring, he gets her a pair of insanely huge diamond earrings, she freaks out and follows him to Ireland where he has a heart conference or something. She's got a plan though. In Ireland, apparently, there's a convenient tradition wherein all women with flippy hair have permission to propose to their boyfriends as long as it's February 29th. Which is great because she couldn't have just done it in Boston.

Anywho, she can't seem to get to Dublin, where future hubby is cardiologing. So she totters all over Ireland in her ridiculous heels and drags this poor hot Irish guy around the country with her on a four day journey from Dingle to Dublin which according to Google Maps and my personal experience is typically a four hour drive. Also the hot Irish guy is really British IRL! He does such a good job with the accent. Also his real life wife is really hot and he's an Aries.

While they're traipsing all over the country, she complains about:

-The food
-The fact that no one cares about her non-problems
-Literally everything

She also falls down a hill into some mud at one point which may have been my favorite part. Or maybe the part where she's drunk and pukes on his shoes? Because you know what, Amy Adams is just like any other gal and pukes on hot guys' shoes.

Turns out that four days is way too much time to be a convincing journey duration to Dublin BUT it IS plenty of time for the surly Irish hottie to fall in love with her, despite her awfulness. Because of her awfulness? It's so hard to tell sometimes.

The final leg of the journey begins when she wakes up hungover with the most perfect blowout I've ever seen. I'm serious, not too bouncy but definitely nicer than anyone can do themselves even with a round brush and a hairdryer and the necessary product.

When they do make it to Dublin (JUST IN TIME FOR LEAP DAY OMG) Adam Scott has a ring for her!! She doesn't even NEED to propose! Which is great, because she is a woman after all and that. shit. is. not. our. job. #feminism

Ah, true love.

Blah blah blah, they go back to Boston (remember? they don't even live in New York! It's so quirky and fun) and Dr. Douchebag says something TERRIBLE to her along the lines of "the co-op board wouldn't have sold us this [tacky ass] apartment if we weren't married so I figured it would make sense for me to propose." What a charmer.

Amy's eyes glaze over and she hops on a plane back to Ireland, where she tells the guy who she had tricked into spending (just) four days with her that she wants to be together. like for realsies. His reaction? COOL HERE IS MY GRANDMOTHER'S RING. What the actual fuck. He just proposes. I'm still in shock. She's the WORST. There are billions of women in the world! Maybe not all with such good hair, but dammit man you have options. Why. Why the high maintenance girl with a shitty attitude and impractical shoes.

Also remember when Amy Adams was Jim Halpert's girlfriend for a hot second?

I'm still reeling (see what I did there)(like Irish dancing... it's late, I don't know). So yeah, I'd rate it a 2/10. It should be a 1 but I have to give it a extra point because it's on me that I saw what it was and I still actually watched the whole thing. But to be fair, my commute is 47 minutes each way.

Guys. I had an interaction the other day that really wigged me out. To be fair, this happens a lot. And it's almost never something that would bother a normal, well adjusted person. But lemme share this one.

I was sitting in the back at work, eating some free work grapes (which incidentally taste better) and chatting with one of my coworkers. One of my medium bosses came back to ask me about some reference moodboards we had sent a designer doing some work for me. We ended up talking about Pinterest- who uses it and why.

I casually said something along the lines of "I mean I'm not an active user but I have my dream wedding board like anyone else." and medium boss looked at me like his head had actually exploded and his eyes were just sort of dangling in space.

"I NEVER would've thought that you have a wedding board." My coworker chimed in "Me neither. That's crazy." When I asked them why, she said "I dunno, I just wouldn't."

And that's it. That was the entire exchange. But it has stayyyyyyyyed with me. I felt weirdly defensive, and a little proud but a little offended and now I keep thinking about it. Because to me it feels like the most natural thing in the world to have a dream wedding board where I can hoard pictures of geode cakes and succulent bouquets and vintage lace wedding dresses that would look terrible on someone my height. And I absolutely have an idea of what I would want my engagement ring to look like, if I ever decide to get married (sparkly, doesn't turn my finger green). There will be no mason jars and very little extended family.

Funny when you get a unexpected glimpse of how people see you.

I woke up about 10 times during the night last night, a spot on the underside of my right arm was sending shooting pains all the way down the right side of my body. When I permawoke around noon (heyyyyy Sunday morning) I saw that Half Asleep Rose I had fashioned a way to rest my throbbing arm on a pile of pillows slightly above my head (you’re supposed to elevate ailing limbs right? sleepy Rose really fixated on that) in a way that calmed the aching enough for me to fall asleep but (bonus!) caused my shoulder to fall asleep. Which is possible, apparently.

Basically- if you think you’re working your triceps out enough, you probably aren’t, and once a large, infuriatingly positive man with a headset mic starts yelling at you to pick up a heavy ass weight and lift it repeatedly over your head you will finally have an opportunity to understand true, agonizing, delayed muscle pain.

This particular misery was dealt by OrangeTheory Fitness. My best guess is that the Theory is just that that everything should be orange and expensive. I not so secretly love going to these types of classes. I can sniff out a new student special like no one else. But I stand extremely firm in my persistent poverty once the schpiels start about “becoming a member” and “class packages” and “fitness goals” and “bank details” and “my first born” and “don’t try to escape haha just kidding." I like to pick a spot on the wall right behind the person pitching to me and think about which Epicurious search terms I’m going to plug in to plan for replenishing every single calorie I burned once it becomes polite for me to take my phone out. Sometimes I nod a little so they think I’m listening, all the while just thinking “bacon..harissa… spring-form pan” on a loop.

I spent this morning working from home, and taking care of some financial stuff that was on my plate. I miraculously got up early(ish) and really knocked some things out.

My finances have always been a huge source of emotion for me. For years I had rolling, full blown panic attacks.

I've been financially independent since I was 17, when I made the decision to go to an incredibly expensive college. I had a minuscule scholarship but the rest of tuition and living costs was supplemented by loans, and working 30ish hours a week at Starbucks.

Hand to god, I don't look back at this time with regret, for two reasons:
1) It was generally amazing.
2) There's no point, because I can't change it now.

But, the reality was that I graduated with almost 100K dollars in student loan debt. I choose to be open with this fact because it's WAY more common than you'd think for 20 somethings to have their lives totally changed because of a decision they made when they were 18 and I try to own it.

But- it has had a huge impact on how the last 8 years of my life have gone.

After graduating, and after the world's shortest six month grace period, my payments started and my sleep stopped. My heart would race, worried about and embarrassed by the phone calls that would come if I missed a payment. I would refrain from going out with people because I would spend the whole time distracted, in panic mode. I was working 2, 3, 4 jobs then. I relied on living opportunities where I could bypass a lease application, and literally any job someone would throw my way. I was a nanny, a security guard at a museum, a sales associate at a particularly bland clothing store that rhymes with Man Bailor Coughed, and a *seemingly* Forever Sound Intern.

This morning I found myself submitting claims for my FSA, reviewing my savings account (which is meager at best) and checking my credit score.
But I do feel like I'm starting to get ahead of things.

Be patient with yourself, loves. This shit is hard and we're doing our best.

My current boss is going to be moving to a new role at the company so we're going through the process of hiring her replacement.

9/10 times in my life I assume my opinion with these things is not being solicited, and because of that, 5/10 times I refrain from giving it. But now it seems as though I'll actually be part of the process and will get my very own interview with the candidates who make it past a certain round.

My relationship with being interviewed started early. And by being interviewed, I mean the judgment kind, not the Vanity Fair feature kind (any day now). I remember meeting with the guidance counselor in elementary school while they asked me strategic questions meant to determine my worthiness for the "Gifted" Program, the name of which I'm now realizing is really problematic. I remember just instinctively knowing the right answers. Not necessarily the most accurate answers, but the answers they wanted to hear. I actually remember thinking, as I sat in a small room with a few other kids doing logic puzzles, that basically, I had auditioned to have more work shoved down my throat.

And it continued. In high school, I went through the process of applying to be a Rotary Exchange Student. This process included about 8 million interviews- both one on one, and group interviews, where you're pitted against other overachievers in a suburban Hunger Game.

I'm not saying I said anything to get ahead, because (for the most part) I didn't fabricate. I tried to be as truthful as possible. But I'd be lying to you now if I didn't say my interview skills were developed mostly due to a vague longing to be special an acute fear of failure- definitely not based on any real confidence, or any interest in speaking to strangers. Strangers are the actual worst.

My first interview in NYC for a Real Job was for a receptionist job at an audio post house. It was awful. I was shown into one of the studios and asked some mild questions by a man with a ponytail and a Dream Theater shirt. He was pleasant enough and I thought things were going great. Then the owner showed up.

He strode in 25 minutes late, all ill-fitting leather and Invisalign, looked me up and down, and without introducing himself he simply said "I hope you're not interested in moving up in this company, because this is a receptionist job and I'd rather not waste my time talking with you if you have other plans."

He didn't ask me a single question but suddenly I was tanking it. I felt so stung. I remember afterwards going to get coffee at a coffee shop where my friend worked and sitting there and just feeling so screwed and sad.

Over the next few years, I tried to hone my skills, determined to not feel that way again. I did my best to figure out how to seem ambitious, but humble. Outgoing but attentive. Qualified, but not overqualified. It gets a little easier I guess, but it's still exhausting.

And now I'm on the other side. And I'm honestly just as exhausted by the prospect of trying to evaluate someone else.

Whatever I do, I've been keeping episodes of 30 Rock on in the background. I hear it's going to be removed from Netflix in November which gives me very little time to play the entire series 6-8 more times while I don't pay attention.

But seriously (because we're serious here)- I find that certain TV shows actually relieve a lot of my anxiety, the anxiety that makes its appearance when I get home, take off my pants and begin judging my life. Gilmore Girls, The Office and 30 Rock all inspire a sense of relative calm in me. I honestly think it's because the stakes are so low and every problem that pops up is solved by the end of each episode. It makes problems in general feel solvable.

So. I'm trying to make some changes. September feels like a decent time to take those pantless judgements of my life and attempt to make positive changes. This school year for example I'm going to stop eating carbs, and read The Alchemist, and finish knitting this scarf I started in 2010.

But seriously (again with the seriousness, ugh) that's all insane and I'm definitely not doing any of those horrible things. I don't fuck with a scale, I eat ice cream and then run around, or I go to boxing where I both punch things and try to look cute in front of the hot trainer there. And frankly I'm doing a damn good job if we use his Instagram likes of pictures of my face as a barometer, which I do.

 I already read The Alchemist and would give my left nut to have that hour and a half back. And I've carried that half-scarf around to 6 different apartments at this point- it feels insulting to the scarf to "finish" it. What does finished even look like? Who is ever really finished?

My actual hopes for this year:

1) Leave work at work. (THIS IS SO HARD WHY)

2) Find a rad person to hang out with and smooch. (THIS IS LESS HARD BUT NOT EASY)

3) Educate myself about the Watergate scandal... something about Nixon and a hotel and wiretapping? (This one is horrifying to admit but WE'RE ALL FRIENDS HERE I know about other stuff)

4) Write lots of things for you.

4.5) And do it with honesty and maximum vulnerability. And that's fucking scary. But let's give it a try.

*I reserve the right to add to this list

**Or subtract

I just went through my old blog from my early teens to see if I could get some inspiration/confidence for this new shiny blog. It’s crazy to read posts that are in my voice from 12-13 years ago.

My last post was this dramatic goodbye when I left for my junior year in Thailand. I said that I would no longer be blogging, and wished everyone good luck and told them I would miss them. Some of the standout comments on that post, with 2017 Rose’s comments, include:

Have lots of fun in Thailand! I’ll have trouble finding another lab partner as much fun as you!
    -I was terrible at science. But that’s probably why they used the word “fun” not “good”. I remember having a big crush on my chemistry teacher.

Have an excellent time.  Chemistry was a blast.
    -There is no way this was a blast.

Just ’cause you’re an MC doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole, just ’cause you’re a man doesn’t mean you get to act like a bitttttttch
    -I mean I think this one is self explanatory.

You fucker you could easily update this but you don’t.
    -Not wrong.

Hm. Did I really think that I was going to never post things about myself on the internet ever again? Adorable.

Welcome to The Draft. Here you will find unreliable yet colorful SSRI reviews, transcripts of bad dates, a sprinkling of TV/movie reviews (with varying levels of accuracy infused with maximum opinions) and a whole bunch of other diary-esque garbage.

I've spent several years oversharing on Facebook and I thought it may be time for me to share TM of my personal I with a bigger circle.

If you don't know me... wait how did you even find this? This is awesome. I love strangers (I don't really but you're probably great.)

I don't want to get ahead of myself, but I think it's safe to say this blog is going to fill the hole that Silk Road left. It's going to fill the hole that Sephora left when they stopped making my eye shit. There's no hole it won't fill. I'm going to jam my words into all sorts of holes. Sometimes multiple holes at the same time. Will you love it? Yes. Will you be turned on by it? Yes but don't even feel weird about it.

This blog will be the kindly old man who gives you unsolicited advice (but a great deal less racist!) You'll be able - nay, encouraged - to park your keister in the tree of my life and peep in through the window like the creeper you are. You'll laugh, you'll cry, but most importantly you'll read it when you're bored.

Look, I'm just trying to make a permanent mark on the internet, by which my children will one day be horrified.

These blog posts could take any of the following formats:
-Live updates from wherever I happen to be, like one of the bars where I like to read and eavesdrop, or the backseat of the ride I'm hitching to Costco, or from my bathroom where I'm overwhelming myself with prospect of a "skincare routine."
-A not-so-live collection of things that have been building up inside of me
-Honestly it could be anything this is not a comprehensive list

If you're one of the above-mentioned strangers: I'm a 29 year old Brooklyn dweller who works as a project manager at a media tech startup. I like running and Always Sunny and being by myself a lot. I hate it when any part of another person touches me on the subway. If I could have dinner with anyone alive or dead I would pick the guy on Catfish who thought he was dating Katy Perry for six years.

TLDR; snarky yuppie.

Looks like this is happening guys. And it's probably going to keep happening, so let's all settle in.