September 29, 2014

I found this gem from my Intro To Animation class in college. I was a senior fulfilling requirements so my class was filled with all Freshman boys. Freshman boys in film school aren't exactly killing it with the ladies so, let's just say, they didn't quite get it. They all thought I was beyond nuts, including my Professor, who was happily married (to a woman).

 

It's hard being so sane and normal but someone has to do it.

 

This will all make sense once you watch... Enjoy!

 

 

August 22, 2014

I’m not sure when it first started. Or when the idea came to my head. Yes, I’m incredibly narcissistic and self-involved, but little girls don’t grow up thinking they can be models. Someone has to put the idea in her head.

 

It definitely wasn’t my mom. In fact, when I was an infant, like all mothers, my mom thought I was perfect and gorgeous. So, she submitted my photo to a modeling agency. Let’s just say they went in a different direction. Most kids don’t have this opportunity until later in life, usually around middle school or high school, but not me. Thanks to my mom, I understood rejection at a very young age. And, was constantly reminded of it for years to come.

 

When I was 18, I was in London shopping in Top Shop when a lady came up to me. She told me she was something with models, I forget, maybe an agent, and she gave me her card. I remember I was wearing a gray pea coat that was very British feeling, so I figured that was probably why she gave me her card. Thanks to my mother, I also didn’t think there was a chance that anyone could have wanted me to model. I just laughed at the idea. I figured it had to do with the fact that the coat was long and covered my entire body. She must have thought I was model material because I have a small head. I get it, my head is small. Did she really have to rub it in?

 

If that happened to me now, and someone gave me a card to model, I would call them up as soon as I got home. Maybe even from the cab on the way home. I would start fantasizing about being a famous model, having millions of Instagram followers and being awesome.

 

But back then, there was no Instagram. So what was the point of modeling? I probably thought if I called her up, she was going to somehow murder me. I could see little naïve me getting myself sold as a sex slave. That would happen to me. I would get raped and murdered.

 

My funeral would be so sad and pathetic. I can just see everyone standing around my grave and grieving. My parents would be so angry with themselves for raising such a naïve child. 

 

“Did she really think she could be a model? I tried to give as many backhanded compliments as possible so she would have a realistic body image.”

 

“How could she have fallen for that?”

 

The rabbi would be giving the speech and would casually turn to show my picture to the small group, and he would burst into laughing. “Wait, THIS is the girl who thought she could model?”

 

But my life changed this past April when I went to Coachella. I went with no expectations, considering I had never been before and had no idea what to expect. I didn’t realize it would be filled with celebrity ogling and everyone trying to dress like they had their own fashion blog.

 

On Instagram, I follow a few models. They are pretty and fun to look at. Also, every time they post a picture of themselves modeling I think to myself that I could easily do this. What a great profession. They just get to do nothing all day, travel the world and make millions of dollars. Sounds perfect for me. I secretly, and not so secretly, have wanted to model for a long time.

 

Years ago I approached my mom with my idea. “Mom, I really want to model. I think it would be a great way for me to make fast cash and I could write while I’m sitting around all day. It’s perfect!” I was young and excited with high self-esteem. Those were the days. My mom responded that she really didn’t think I would be able to model, “Maybe a plus size model.” She swears she was joking around. But the scar and the dive my self-esteem took didn’t really get the joke.

 

Anyways, despite my mother telling me I had no chance, I still thought I could do it. I’d just have to lose like 20 pounds or so. Piece of cake. Ugh, I would probably have to stop eating cake and all of those other foods that I love. That would suck. But I could handle it. Modeling would be amazing.

 

But everything went down towards the end of the festival on Saturday. I stood at the bar and tried to get the attention of the bartender. He wasn’t looking my way at all. It wasn’t until he started walking over towards me that I thought I finally got his attention. I was wrong. He walked right up to the person standing next to me. Being the incredibly unobservant self-involved person I am, I hadn’t even taken the time to look around me. But in order to give a dirty look to the person who was ordering a drink before me, I turned to my right. All I saw was legs. So I slowly craned my head up to see who was stealing my alcohol. There she was, towering over me, Behati Prinsloo (a victoria secret model). Her two legs combined were half the size of one of my legs.

 

Hoping she was just unusally skinny for a model, I looked in my other direction. There, on my left, was Candice. I don’t know her last name because it’s not in her Instagram name. But she was also double my height and half my weight. These girls were not human. They were superhuman. Some sort of other worldly amazing species.

 

That was the moment when I realized I could never model. That was the moment I realized I better get funny ASAP or I’m really fucked in this life. That was the moment I gave up on my dreams of modeling and had to admit, for the first time ever, despite it going against everything I had been believing for years, that maybe, just maybe, my mom was right.

August 4, 2014

This is a story I submitted to the Shouts & Murmurs section of The New Yorker. They didn't want it, I'm just too funny for them I guess. I don't normally post fiction on this blog but I like this piece a lot. I hope you all do too!


Again, I repeat, this is FICTION.

 

First Date

Ugh, I would do anything to not have to go on this date right now. I am such a loser. Why am I such a loser? If I wasn’t such a loser, I probably wouldn’t still be going out on dates and I’d be in a relationship by now. I just know how it’s going to go. But, of course, there is that small chance that this could go differently than the plethora of other failed dates I’ve been on. But it is such a small chance. Is it really worth all of this effort and all of this pain? And if this guy were the one, wouldn’t I be excited right now? I’m not saying I believe in love at first sight (which, yes, I really hate to admit that I do believe in). But all I’m saying is, wouldn’t I have a better feeling about this?

 

I can’t take another guy trying to impress me. I’m not saying the whole playing hard to get theory is true (which it is, but that’s not what I’m saying). I just want to be challenged. If another boy tells me I look pretty, I am going to vomit. On him. It’s just so fake! What, is he going to tell me that I look ugly? But even that would be a nice change. A surprise. I want to be surprised! Not by flowers or in that kind of way. Dating has become so predictable. So boring. Guys are so worried about trying to impress me that they forget to be themselves. Oh, I’ve spent all this time worrying and now I’m going to be late. What should I wear? I mean, I still want to look good. He could be the one.

 

Ok. Here we go. He’s here to pick me up. Picking me up. What century is this? If he holds the door open for me I’ll puke. I wonder what kind of car he drives. Not that it matters. I don’t need a guy who has a lot of money. I plan to support myself. Feminism. But I mean, it will say something about him. If he drives a hummer I’m turning around. I don’t need to find out what he is overcompensating for. Or anything with rims. I’m not exactly sure what rims are but they sound too flashy. Alright, normal car. I approve. Do we hug? Shake? Why am I so awkward? Hi, how are you? Oh, I look pretty? That’s so nice of you to say… so unexpected. Awkward silence. This is going great. What do we talk about? So… where are we going? Oh, sushi? I hate sushi. Great, I love sushi. At least now I won’t have to worry about eating too much. I think I have a milky way in my fridge. Now that’s all I can think about. I would do anything to not have to sit through this dinner.

 

You know how sometimes you think about something in your head, you build it up and then you think you know how it’s going to end? Let me tell you, this was better than I thought it would be. The swirls of chocolate and caramel together were really heavenly. I must be drunk because that was the best thing I’ve ever had. Or maybe it just seems that way compared to the disgusting sushi from earlier. I can’t believe I had to sit through that awful dinner with that awful guy just to come home and do exactly what I could’ve been doing all night. What’s the point in even going? I give up. They say you find him when you aren’t even looking. So from now on, I’m not going to look.

 

I can’t believe it’s been two days and he still hasn’t texted me. And I’m not texting him first. No chance. I don’t understand, I thought the night went really well. I’m not going to go there and say that he could be the one, but you never know. I’m very thrown. He probably wants me to text him. Which I’m not going to do. I had a great time but if he didn’t like me then it’s his loss. Even if I wasn’t my most fun self, I still looked good. Something must be wrong. Maybe he lost my number. Or his phone broke. That’s what happened, he lost his phone! Or something worse. Maybe something bad happened. Now I’m worried. He was so nice. Almost too nice. He would’ve texted me by now. If something bad happened, I don’t want to seem like the bitch who didn’t text him. I should probably text him. Just in case.

 

Oh wait, he just texted me. He wants to hang out tonight. I just saw him two days ago. It’s a little bit soon... a little bit desperate. I’ll respond later, maybe.

February 3, 2014

I’m a nice person. I really am. Not necessarily a good person… but still a nice person. Yes, I am easily annoyed. And yes, I hate talking to people when I don’t want to be. But I don’t think that makes me a bad person. But I just went out to lunch.  As the hostess showed me to my table, she smiled and tried to make small talk. Because of this niceness, I conversed with her and forced myself to smile back. Sometimes one is just not in the mood to chat about nothing. Then the same thing happened with the waitress. Answering the same dumb questions over and over when all I want to do is to be left alone. But clearly now I sound like a bad person again. I’m not allowed to say that I don’t want to talk to random people and pretend to be in a good mood all the time. That’s not socially acceptable. Even though I'm pretty sure everyone secretly agrees with me.

 

But the other night I did something pretty rare. I went out. I’m not a big drinker, I don’t go out very often and when I do I usually leave decently early. I’m what people call “boring” or “a loser”. And those things are just to my face. I’m don’t even know what they say behind my back. But the other night I did it. It started with a glass of wine, or two. Then we ran out of that so we moved on to whiskey. We had nothing other than seltzer water so I tried it. I loved it. Once we got to the bar, I ordered my new favorite drink: whiskey soda. I sipped on this for a while. I think I had more than one. It’s really hard to remember now. On our way out, we decided that tequila shots were a good idea. Note to self: tequila shots are never a good idea on the way out.

 

Walking back to my friend’s apartment, we passed a cool speakeasy type bar that none of us had been to yet. Someone decided it was a good idea to go in for a drink. Probably the same person who suggested the tequila shots. I ordered a tequila drink. I chugged down this sugary margarita concoction…

 

Cut to: the next morning. Two advil and three bottles of water later, my head was still pounding, it hurt to move and all I wanted was fries. I basically wanted to die. But fries seemed more important than dying so I forced myself up and met my friend out for breakfast. She was in just as bad shape as I was. We looked like shit.

 

We chugged coffee and water and I ordered a hamburger and fries (at 9am). Did I mention this was a weekday? People from the wait staff were coming over to me to compliment “my style”. Nobody tried to talk to us for too long because it was very obvious how hung over and miserable we were.  When you’re hung over, you might as well have a giant sign around your neck that says ‘leave me the fuck alone’. Thankfully, everyone has been in this position before so you don’t need one. It’s universally understood.

 

Despite our awful appearance, disheveled hair thrown on top of our heads, sunglasses hiding our puffy makeup-less faces and baggy sweatpants from head to toe, the fact that we were in the worst mood possible, wanting nothing to do with anybody, and that we were stuffing our faces like animals… we somehow still seemed cool.

 

If I was completely sober this morning, after a great night’s rest, I could not get away with stuffing my face like an obese woman, wearing sunglasses inside and wanting to be left alone. I mean I could still do it but I’d be a bad person. I realized that being hung over is the only socially acceptable excuse to act like a bitch and get away with it.

 

So from now on, consider me permanently hungover.

January 15, 2014

1. Get off your phone and talk to the people around you. You can text your friend later.

2. Meet new people. You might learn something.

3. Be open to new experiences.

4. Travel

5. Have an opinion. Read more. Be knowledgeable. If you don’t have one, read some op-ed pieces. Making ditzy comments about politics is not cute. It’s not attractive to be dumb.

6. Put some more clothes on. Showing your boobs and your butt will not get you a second date. Or any respect.

7. Don't talk if you have nothing worthwhile to contribute.

8. Exercise. Not for your appearance but for your self-esteem. It’s important to feel good in your own skin.

9. Always offer to pay. If he insists, that’s his prerogative. But always offer.

10. Don’t curse. It’s not cute or classy.

11. Have ambition. Other than finding a man. Live your own life and do your own thing.

12. Stop idolizing celebrities.

13. Be successful. Don’t rely on other people.

14. Have a sense of style. But you don’t have to Instagram it everyday. I know you think its fashion blog worthy. It’s probably not.

15. Stop being so insecure. Confidence is attractive.

16. Have interests, passions and goals. Do something outside of work and getting drunk on the weekends.

17. Don’t drink too much. It’s annoying and your friends don’t want to deal with it. Blacking out isn’t cool after college.

18. If there’s something you don’t like about yourself, change it. Don’t just complain all the time and pity yourself.

19. Have friends. Appreciate them. Be a friend in return.

20. One real friend is more valuable than a group of seven girls that you pre-game with.

21. Always keep the ball in your court. Take control over what you want.

22. Being a slut does not get you respect. From them or from you.

23. Eat. We’re not fun when we’re hungry. Obsessing over weight is annoying. And you’re the only one who can notice the difference. Learn to be comfortable in your own skin.

24. Laugh more. Learn to see the humor in things. Especially when it comes to yourself.

25. Stop being obsessed with other girls. They’re not as cool as you think they are. Learn to love yourself.

26. Be cultured. There is a museum in your city. Go to it.

27. Stop gossiping and judging other people. Why do you care? Worry about yourself. You’re not perfect.

28. Get off Facebook. Once a day is enough. There is nothing that important happening in other people’s lives that requires you to check it five times a day.

29.  Stop taking selfies.

30. Most of all, be yourself. Don’t worry about what other people think of you. Be who you are and own it. Even if it means disregarding numbers 1-29 on this list.

October 10, 2010

To Whom It May Concern,


I am one of those people who has a new thought every other minute of every day. I'm not talking about thoughts such as "what's for dinner" or "he's hott" (because those thoughts don't go through my mind daily) but rather, thoughts about my life, people (in the abstract sense, not petty gossip or bickering), society and the world. Yes, this probably sounds similar to all other bloggers who think that what they have to say is worth hearing--which it usually isn't. But here is the difference between this blog and all of the others. I don't think what I'm writing about is worth reading.

The sole reason I am creating this blog is for myself. Throughout my day, whether via phone call, text, aim and email (maybe the occasional in person conversation if I'm lucky) I divulge my daily epiphanies, unusual observations and random stories about my life to my friends: those who care about how I'm doing, are really bored in their class and/ or disguise their lack of interest enough for me to keep filling their inboxes. I might as well start writing everything in one place rather than copying and pasting all day. I'm making it seem as though I have a lot of friends..  But I'm pretty sure it can be assumed that people who spend their days writing down their thoughts usually don't have a lot of friends. I usually advocate against 'assuming' not because of the dumb saying which I'm not going to write, but because you can never really know things about people until you get to know them. But in this case, assuming might not be such a bad idea.

This blog is a direct result of my over anxious personality and my necessity to put my thoughts on paper (or this century's equivalent). Even though I prefer a pen and paper in a heartbeat over a computer. But because my thoughts are endless and I think faster than I write, typing is essential; a mindless, easy-on-the-wrists way to keep track of my excess of thoughts and ideas.

Most blogs have a purpose: maybe it is a music blog where the blogger knows a lot about new bands and new songs. I can't think of any other type of blog that people read--probably because I don't read blogs and I find them useless. I, for the most part, don't care what other people have to say. Not that I think I'm right and everyone else is wrong (which does happen a lot) but because I have better things to do with my time. Or, that used to be my reasoning. Now that I just moved to NYC, can count my friends on one hand and find myself alone a lot of the time.. I think I may need to start reading blogs. Any suggestions? I just don't know what I'd want to read about, maybe books?, but even then, how do I know whose opinion to trust? See what I mean? Random questions and thoughts.. all day long. It is exhausting.

Anyways, my blog has no purpose. No cute little characteristic to carry through, like Julie from Julie & Julia where she blogs about cooking. But, a few things that people might find useful from what I have to say: I love language. I know that sounds strange but the idea that there are multiple words that have similar meanings and how there are multiple ways to phrase the same idea all with different connotations. So pay attention to the words I use and how I phrase things, although it could easily be accidental, it most likely isn't. I'm not going to try and sound professional but I'm warning you: a lot of the time I speak extremely formally, as though I'm in an interview or writing a professor. I'm not sure why. People make fun of me for it a lot though. But, I like everything I say to be understood. I wouldn't have written: 'So pay attention to my syntax and word choice..' because that just makes me sound pretentious and nobody actually speaks like that. So note: there is a difference and do not get confused.

Even though only a handful of my friends are actually reading this (if even that many.. ), and they already know this. I'll tell you, (the ambiguous 'you' of whoever may be stumbling upon this). I'm good at giving advice. I tend to understand people. So even though my friends (well some of them) already come to me for advice, 'you' are more than welcome to also. Just make a comment with your question and I'd gladly answer it. No, this is NOT an advice column, but, I enjoy it and I'm good at it.. so why not offer my services. Also, feel free to comment about anything and everything. Even if it is a question about nothing related to anything I've said (written?). I thrive off of random questions.

So I guess this post has been essentially an 'About Me' which I really had no intention of creating. But, to do the obligatory, because half of what I say won't make sense if you don't know these things, here it is. I am a junior transfer student at NYU. I spent the last two years of my college experience at the University of Michigan. I'll refrain from giving any of my opinions because those will most definitely come up in future posts (especially because if I have to recount to one more person why I transferred, I'll kill myself). I need to come up with a funny response to that question, like the responses Campbell Alexander, the lawyer, in My Sister's Keeper gives when people ask him why he has a service dog, "I have an iron lung. He keeps me away from magnets." Yes, of course I had to look up his name and examples of his responses (everything is on the internet.. it's crazy). But, the point is that I remembered his witty remarks and I need something like that.. if anyone has any ideas.

So yes, I'm alone in this city, left to indulge my interests and curiosities, desperate for interesting conversation. There's obviously more to me but that's all you get for now. I am not going to list my favorite color, pets I may or may not have, what I like, what I dislike, where I've worked, what I do in my free time, etc.-- because frankly, it's irrelevant. But I promise, if at any point those boring conversation starters become relevant, I'll fill you in. But, until then, you'll have to wait. Plus, suspense is the force that drives the universe. After money and sex, of course.

I'm pretty sure the title of this blog is self-explanatory. If not, just keep reading and it will be soon.

And finally, the last thing that needs to be understood before you continue reading (yes, I'm aware that was a bold assumption). Majority of what I say is sarcastic and/or satirical with a cynical undertone. I understand it is hard to detect sarcasm online, but I am sorry that will not be stopping me. If ever you're unsure, assume I'm being sarcastic. If it continues to be a problem, then this blog just isn't for you.

Have fun,
Hannah

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September 29, 2014

August 4, 2014

February 3, 2014

October 10, 2010

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WHO AM I ?

Hi, my name is Hannah Barbakoff. I'm a 25 year old  writer who lives in New York City... Actually, that's a lie. I currently reside in New Jersey with my parents... where I'm having the time of my life. I spend my time stressing out, over analyzing things and making bad decisions.

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