Flavor of the Week: Jaden Smith Instagram Roundup

This has been going on for far too long and has been flying under the radar far too quietly. I feel as though I must take the liberty of exposing Jaden Smith’s Instagram account to the public.

Jaden Smith looks like The Weeknd and spits godly phrases like Yeezy. He acts on screen like Taylor Lautner circa The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl. And that about sums it up.

I have a really strange talent for finding semi-famous people’s social media accounts and then obsessively following their lives until I know almost everything about them. I tried to make Jaden Smith one of my stalkees, but it just didn’t work. His guard is too raised; his thoughts too deep. As I attempt to deconstruct the Instagram photos shared by @iputthesocietyonmyback (something Jaden really does, especially valued at $8 million at the age of 15), you’ll hopefully see what I mean.

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Here, Jaden turns geometry into something trippy as balls. I am wondering if he is implying that this is just the start of his passion for paper pyramid building. Will he be building more pyramids? Will he be gifting those pyramids? Will Jaden Smith send me a paper pyramid? I am v excited to see where his paper pyramid endeavors take him.

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In other words, “selfié.” Jaden freestyles in this caption, revealing a passion for the Twilight series, which he wants to watch in a light blue room. He’s lucky that he has enough money to paint a room light blue just to watch a Twilight movie in it. Jaden comes to terms with his ridiculousness, warning others not to end up like him, “Young Black And Delirious.” Don’t ignore the second stanza, either. BTW, I think you mean *too, Jaden.

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Oh, cool. Thx 4 the update.

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Yes, yes. Enchant them with the White Silk Pants. Those are always a winner. Also, I do not see any young dumb scamps in this black and white photo of LA!!!! I wonder if his fingers ever get tired of typing with capital letters. Eh?

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Ready for Hawaii or ready to become a dementor? I’m kinda into this one, though. Super ironic.

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Yes, Jaden, you protect the Kardashian sisters and their pretty blonde friend in an Iron Man suit. Jaden posted this to remind us of his inability to blend into society–the society that is, after all, on his back. I wish I was the privileged child of a celebrity. Then maybe I could look cool pretending every word is a proper noun, too.

That’s all for this week. Check out Jaden Smith: the philosophical poet of our generation on Insta to gain more wordly insights.


Flavor of the Week: Losing Everything

mr. forgetful

As gleeful college biddies flock back north to the tundrous Great Lakes and to the non-stop pretty-people-party that is all southern schools, I can’t help but reminisce upon the terrible yet inevitable habit of losing everything.

When I was younger, I used to lose or leave something behind every time I left the house. My first few flip phones would go MIA for weeks at a time, only to show up again crushed at the bottom of a friend’s driveway or stowed away in the wings of the stage curtain by a boy who sang in the sixth grade chorus with me. Eventually, his mother told me of his intentions: he thought it would be funny to hijack my most prized possession and then heroically “find it” again. Of course, he forgot about the hijacking and the devious plan in its entirety and ceased to properly return the phone.

In seventh grade, I lost my childhood teddy bear in transit over a weekend in which I was attending three separate Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. There’s a price to pay that comes with being a 13 year old Jewish girl.

A night in which all you do is “win, win, win no matter what” can be awfully tainted by the loss of your Marc by Marc by Marc Jacobs by Jacobs Marc by Marc keychain. In college, girls lose a lot of things. Dignity, respect, iPhones, and wallets. While there rarely seems to be a bright side to losing any/all of the above, there still must be a reason why we lose so often–otherwise, we just wouldn’t. So here’s a few I came up with:

We lose stuff to get attention, because everyone loves putting together a search party for Daddy’s missing credit card.

We lose stuff to get new stuff, because, hey, wasn’t it time for that iPhone upgrade anyways?

We lose stuff to get our stuff returned, because you never know how attractive an honest man will be.

We lose stuff when we don’t really need or want what we lost, because who needs a jacket when you have a sick new crop-top with a major side boob exposé?

We lose stuff when we’re distracted, because we can’t help it that we’re so popular.

i can't help that i'm so popular

 

My mom used to yell at me for being so forgetful about my things, and I told her that it wasn’t something I could improve upon because it was an unavoidable character flaw. It’s part of being a girl. (It’s also part of being intoxicated.)

 

Images viavia


Flavor of the Week: An FYD Christmas List

(elF)YD

ELF-YD

Dear Santa,

I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering why a nice Jewish girl like me would be writing to you, asking for gifts on a holiday that doesn’t even belong to the chosen people. Well, Santa, it turns out I had a rough year. It was also a great year–don’t get me wrong–but I would venture to say there were times where I, usually a hard headed independent woman that don’t need no man, boarded the struggle bus. I think I deserve a present or two. On that note, I want to introduce to you the Jewish concept of mitzvah–a worthy deed. You would really be doing a mitzvah by helping your marginalized friend (a.k.a. me) out. If I were you getting me a gift, here’s what I would just hypothetically get for myself. If you were my boyfriend or my family member or a good friend getting me a present for the holidays, still totally in theory, Santa, I would also recommend anything on this list. Santa, I think this will be a great role playing game for you. I feel like you’re really going to get to know me.

  • Tickets to the Beyoncé concert at Barclay’s, either of the nights. (I’m not very picky, Santa. But I would prefer GA seats, if you were wondering.)
  • A tobi.com gift card! JK LOL, do not get me this. Seriously, don’t.
  • But feel free to get me a Free People one.
  • An iTunes gift card, because I’m poor and like music.
  • Some makeup, because I’m really ugly and need it. Pity me.
  • An unlimited supply of zero calorie fruity drinks, preferably carbonated ones.
  • A new iPhone. Mine is literally degenerated (the selfie camera is really bad quality).
  • This phone case. Make sure you get the size that fits my new iPhone (mentioned above).

  • A new Facebook profile pic. Mine is getting really old. Can we arrange an artsy photo shoot with the Nikon you got for your Bar Mitzvah? Oh, shit… I forgot you didn’t… um… sorry, Santa.
  • A book deal.
  • The opportunity to babysit Nori West.

Merry Christmas! (Or, as one of my favorite TV characters, Schmidt from New Girl, likes to call it, “White Anglo Saxon Winter Privilege Night.”)

Love, your biggest non-gentile fan,
Hannah

p.s. Here’s one more for the road:

elfyd2


On Playing Hard to Get

When two people are interested in each other, they should be together. Right?

No, of course not.

Although that would make perfect sense, human interaction could never be that easy. Why not? Because if it was easy, it wouldn’t be worth it. It wouldn’t be fun, it wouldn’t be exciting, and we would get bored even though we are in the ideal situation of mutual wanting. We’ve convinced ourselves that when we want someone too much, we don’t want them at all. If we wanted them at all, we would make them work.

Hence, the infinite game of “playing hard to get”: of making sure your friends don’t let you respond to that text message until 11:39pm and 46 seconds, of leaving the conversation in a terrifying cliffhanger by not answering the question “Did I tell you that I ran into ‘x’ today?” No you didn’t tell me, and I’m not going to risk my mysterious persona by allowing this conversation to get irrelevant and pointless. The beginning of a relationship is like writing a screenplay–every word has to have a significance. And if it doesn’t, then it isn’t worth saying.

I used to be and still am terrible at playing hard to get. It isn’t that I’m easy, and it isn’t that I’m a slut. In fact, I’m far from both of these things. Instead, I’m a premature yenta that can’t keep her mouth shut. I was born as a small fuzzy caterpillar waiting to turn into a social butterfly. (If you know my mom, you know exactly where I get this quality from). When I entered the fiery hell of high school girl world, I had trouble understanding how it wasn’t considered the rudest thing possible to play hard to get. I was confused about the bitchy aspects of the dating game; i.e., making a guy text you five times before responding, ignoring his physical existence unless he approaches you, and whatever else my American Girl book “All You Need To Know About Boys a.k.a. How To Get Guys With As Little Sluttiness As Possible” told me to do.

a.k.a. this

a.k.a. this

My fears were all legitimate. What if he thinks I died? What if I seem so rude that he’s not going to like me at all anymore? What if he thinks I’m not who he thought I was? Eventually, I became so frazzled that my friends would have to deal with my relationships for me. Every text I received was treated amongst my friends like a table read of Girls.

I eventually realized that I’m not the only one with hard-to-get/how-to-text anxieties. Last week I was snuggled up in bed with my teddy bear, blankie, retainers, and sleep mask. Click here if you want a nice image of what that looks like. As I was falling asleep, someone BURSTED through my door (which I obviously forgot to lock) and jumped on my bed. My first thought was that I was being recruited by Agent Cody Banks and the CIA. Momentarily, I came to my senses and realized that it was one of my best friends. She got a text message: “Hey, what’s up?” Then, the conniption fit initiated. Pretty standard.

My mom was keen at enforcing that I should play hard to get since I was in middle school. He should have to come to your house, she would say. Make him work for youOriginally, I thought that she was crazy. But now, I think she changed me for the better. I feel like I value myself (sexually) more than most of the girls I know do… even more than some of my feminist friends do. Impressive, right? I think that although I feel guilty ignoring a text, or making someone who wants me on the bottom of my priority list, it’s all in good reason. If we don’t make someone–anyone–work to get us, then we ultimately give ourselves less value. Sure, anyone’s daddy can buy him a LandRover. But your daddy will never be able to buy you love from a nice Jewish girl like me.


On PDA

I used to be terrified of a few things: vomit, roller coasters, and PDA. This is something that most girls have in common. My fears were not of miscellaneous fruits or animals; they were reasonable. But with the passing of time, I don’t know if my fears would stand as “acceptable.” Yes, girls are probably still shuddering at the sight of bodily fluids. Some, like me, will never be too fond of adventure parks, either. PDA is a different story. The girls today don’t give two shits, and I’ll tell you why.

First, let me give some backstory. My freshman year of high school brought a lot of new and exciting changes. My boobs kept growing even after I thought they had stopped, and I was finally getting back into my normal routine of having a panic attack a day. It was really great. It was also the year that I would be start going to school with my first “real” boyfriend. Going to school with your boyfriend for the first time is like having a co-ed sleepover party in the first grade. It isn’t like anything is going to actually happen out of the ordinary, but because you’re in the same vicinity your mind plays a dirty little trick on you that it will. Every day had the opportunity for something amazing and wonderful to happen because I was “young” and “in love” and I was also, like, fourteen.

For him, there was no secret fantasy hiding in the janitor’s closet or the handicap stall of the second floor girl’s bathroom. It was much simpler than that–we were in school together, so when he saw me in the hallway, or when he walked me to class, he was going to hold my hand.

Hence, World War III commenced.

For some reason, I was OK with wishing that one day my boyfriend would get the school marching band to surprise me with a rendition of Weezer’s “Island in the Sun,” but I was not OK with any public displays of affection (for newbies out there, public display of affection = PDA). It wasn’t even that I was embarrassed to have a boyfriend. I was far from embarrassed. I felt like the luckiest girl in the whole school. For a reason I am still not totally aware of, I was terrified of any touching, hugging, kissing, groping, lap-sitting, etc. etc. in front of anyone else.

So much love <3333 like endlessly

The two of us would get into bitter arguments over PDA. Why was it such a big deal for me to hold his hand? Why couldn’t we hug before class? Not even a kiss on the cheek? My defense was simple: no one needed to see it. I was always very prude and in the stubbornest of ways. I had heard so many people go off about how disgusting it is to see couples being mushy in the halls. I had even been blockaded from my locker many a time (a common occurrence at my high school) by couples going at it up against the wall.

My literal fear of PDA got so bad that my mom eventually had to say something to me about it. “You’re so cold towards [insert ex’s name here haha lol]. Why don’t you just be a little warmer? One day you’re gonna push him so far away that he’s not going to come back.” Since Mama always knows best, especially when she’s Jewish Yenta Mama, I took her advice to the best of my ability. Slowly, I eased by way into the nauseating hand-holding and the awkward-feeling-but-looks-cute arm around the waist. “See?” I would say to my boyfriend. “Look how good I’m doing!” You’d think I was going through psychotherapy (not to say I wasn’t, anyway) or that maybe he was teaching me how to ride a bicycle (not that he didn’t, either) by the way we would speak about it.

But enough about me. Let’s talk about the biddies in their prime–they can still eat whatever they want, they can still solely rely on Mommy and Daddy’s ca$h flow, they’re still naive enough to believe that a quadruple date with four senior guys isn’t just a quadruple booty call–and how these days, they are lovin’ themselves some PDA. Let me go back to where I started. Why do they love PDA? Obviously, I’m going to blame this on social media. Haha duh.

When I was a freshman in high school, I had a Facebook. But social media was not nearly as much of a “thing” then as it was now. My freshman year was when people learned how to put photos onto Facebook from their Blackberries (freshman now don’t even know what a Blackberry is) that were filtered into an album automatically titled “Mobile Uploads.” And just like that, my fave vocab word of all time–mupload, obv–was born into creation.

Now, there is no way to put photos on Facebook aside from through your iPhone… or at least that’s how we make it look. Facebook and its critical importance in the everyday life of a teenaged girl has built up PDA to become a normal thing. Everyone sees everything you do because there’s a mupload of you doing it already on Facebook. I’ve seen you hooking up, I’ve seen you grinding, I’ve seen you holding each other’s hair back, and I’ve seen you sitting on the toilet. So, you might as well go ahead and hold hands in the hallways. You might as well.

The weirdest thing is this: after a few years of high school, I started feeling a compulsion to chronicle my relationships on Facebook. Simultaneously, I found myself feeling more and more comfortable with a quick kiss or a hand-hold. Just some food for thought…

On the bright side of things, in case you were wondering, I’m totally over my phobia of PDA. Vomit… not so much.


Flavor of the Week: Food-stagrams

As incentive: I will provide you will food porn throughout the post

Personal food-stagrams

People are very split when it comes to opinions on Instagramming food. Many of you have read (and if you haven’t, then you should) Katherine Markovich’s “An Open Letter To People Who Take Pictures of Food With Instagram,” posted on McSweeny’s not too long ago. The column piece went absolutely viral as thousands and thousands of people who spend entirely too much time on Facebook/the internet ironically agreed with Markovich’s scornful rant on those who combine eating time with social media presence. As a food-stagramer myself, I cannot say that I am against the movement. I’d like to write an “open letter” to this thought-piece which, although humorous, just doesn’t get it right.

First of all, no matter how hard you try, you are never going to get people to stop taking photos of their food. Why? Many reasons. People like food. People really, really like food. Also, sometimes people have a hard time finding something to Instagram. And when those people haven’t Instagrammed in quite some time and are looking to turn something from dull to Lo-Fi brilliance, food is an easy place to turn.

Second of all, the title of her piece is almost as infuriating as the piece itself. You cannot take a “picture.” You can, however, take a photograph. And you (usually) don’t take photos of something “with” Instagram. The piece’s title just goes to show how little Markovich knows about Insta and it’s utilization in American syntax. “To Instagram” is a verb, and “Instagram” is a proper noun in reference to the application itself. But you cannot do or take something with Instagram. And if you don’t know that about Insta-grammar (clever, right?), then you shouldn’t be writing an article about Instagram at all.

When I went to Italy last summer, we would take photos of our meals every time we ate. Yes, I Insta’d a bunch of them. But I wasn’t Insta’ing every single plate at every single meal. Most were for the memories. You can food-stagram in moderation, and that’s OK. My mentor in life, love, and the pursuit of being skinny happiness, Bethenny Frankel, says “Food is not your best friend or your enemy.” Food is like a one night stand–just because we’re Instagramming a photo of it doesn’t mean that we’re obsessed with it. It just means it looks yummy and delicious and would look great in Amaro.

A big point that most people make in the case against food-stagramming is that people who do it think of themselves as professional photographers or artists. No, no, no, don’t even go there girlfriend. Posting a photo of a slice of chocolate cake is just like posting a photo of you and your best friend… especially for some people. Lolz.

Now that you’re hungry, click here for some food porn.


Flavor of the Week: Read Receipts

If you are not iPhone savvy, which essentially means kbye…

READ RECEIPT: An indication of whether a sent iMessage has been read by its recipient. If the most recently sent message has been read, the word “Read” along with the time at which it was read will appear underneath the message. If the message has not been read, the word “Delivered” will appear underneath. In order for this to function properly, the sender of the messages must have enabled his or her read receipts to be turned on in “Settings.”

An homage (and a very-needed pro/con list) to our favorite little thing to hate:

CONS:

1. Apple stole it from Blackberry, which is why “betches loved BBM.” We thought it was the best invention since sliced whole wheat bread that you could see when someone read your text. Oh yeah… remember that??

ily doe

2. If you’re attractive enough for a boy to stalk you, he’ll know you’re blatantly ignoring him.

3. If you’re passive-aggressive enough to ignore your best friend’s outspoken text, she’ll know you’re ignoring her.

4. The “Mom, I swear I fell asleep and didn’t see your text asking me to come home” excuse goes down the drain… like, sayonara.

5. The only way you can see if someone’s reading your messages if if their read receipts are on. So you can totally get away with having yours off but still being able to tell if they’re ignoring you.

PROS:

1. If you’re trying to play hard-to-get, you can let the other person know that you immediately read every text they send you the second you receive it yet still do not respond.

2. If you’re a guy, your girlfriend will know if you’re reading/ignoring her texts vs. if you genuinely haven’t looked at them yet. Let me emphasize that these PROS are geared towards the ladies.

3. You create an aura of trust with the people whom you text. They know you’re a hella honest babe if you’re putting yourself out there so much.

4. Most people in serious relationships have theirs on. I don’t know how this is a PRO, but it’s a funny thing to notice.

5. You come off as a total badass if your read receipts are on and you ignore people, hence you clearly not giving a f***.

Most people say that they “don’t believe in read receipts” like how I say “I don’t believe in people who chew so loudly that they literally could start another tsunami.” No matter how much you think you can ignore this cultural movement, it’s still going to exist. You don’t like read receipts because you believe in being super self-conscious privacy. Don’t worry–my receipts are shut off (post-serious boyfriend, of course). But if we could indulge in them without making people think we care too much, wouldn’t we all?


On Texting

It seems like like everything else nowadays, there is enough assumed texting etiquette to write a New York Times style guide about it. When you admit that, does it sound ridiculous? Yes. But is it totally true? Obvious-effing-ly. So, like everything else, let’s break this baby down.

Texting is generally a self-conscious habit in many ways. It is a multi-faceted battle of the many sides of you–the side that wants to use your impeccable grammar skills and your vocabulary loaded like an M16 with bullets of memorized SAT words; the side of you that recognizes your opportunity to be casual, funny, and quirky arises when you are in the shadow of the iPhone screen. Because IRL (in real life, a crucial acronym), I am the nerdiest of spellers and those who speak, read, and write English, I used to be super anal over text message. Then one day I had an epiphany of sorts in which I realized that text was text and I was wasting precious seconds struggling to spell out “sounds like a plan” with my swollen fingers, which obviously swell whenever I eat foods too concentrated in salt. Overnight, I converted from the proper texter to the all-out ratchet texter.

Just like Cady.

Never will you see a text I compose that includes “sounds like a plan” again–SLAP is the way mothafuckas. I recycled the fourth grade jargon I was once so comfortable using on AIM. Those were the days when my profile said “Our dreams, and they are made out of real things / Like a, shoebox of photographs / With sepia-toned loving” because “Better Together” was the only Jack Johnson song I knew. I also listed the initials of my 30 close and personal friends, all of whom I was clearly very close and personal with because I had 30 of them. Right.

Now, every abbrev that u cld poss think of is used on a daily basis by moi. It’s dumb to waste time on text message when all I’m trying to figure out is which movie my best friends and I want to attend in our pajamas on any given Saturday night. Def not worth the letters.

Speaking of abbreviations, I wanted to discuss two of my faves: “haha” and “lol.” First things first–snaps to “lol” for making the comeback of the century. For real. When we were younger, it was socially acceptable to write “lol,” yet there was something about it that I didn’t find cool–I have a faint recollection of interpreting it as something boys would say, therefore making it inherently more unintelligent on the sixth grade level. I always, always, always was more of a haha-er. But in general, “lol” was the norm. After a while, however, it’s reign began to fade and everyone was just saying “haha.” “Haha” became “hahaha” and “lol” was evicted like an unemployed post grad–see ya, kiddo. Now, I use “lol” and “lolz” (OF COURSE) on the daily.

Not only is the evolution of the words we use to express laugher fascinating, but the fact that we even use words to express laughter at all is what kicks it for me. I was once told by a very well-travelled man that in Russia, no one smiles for photos. Why? Because they don’t see why anyone would fake a smile just to be recorded in a still frame if they were not smiling to begin with. Why fake happiness?

This situation, which I could write an entire post on alone, reminds me so much of the way we express laughter through the digital wall. Most of the time you write “lol,” “haha,” or whatever your preference of onomatopoeia is, you aren’t actually laughing. So why do you write it? To let the person on the other end know that you are amused, perhaps. Maybe it’s because you felt that inkling of a giggle inside you, but you just didn’t need to let it out. When I am texting with someone, and either of us finds what the other is saying to be legitimately funny, I find that we’ll always say “I’m actually laughing.”

Once, I coined the term “legit lol” for when I laughed out loud. Shouldn’t “haha” be enough? Also, whose laugh actually sounds like “haha”? And why do we feel the need to let someone know that you thought something was funny when 1) in reality, you weren’t even laughing, and 2) IRL, we don’t say “that was funny” to someone during conversation when we thought that something was funny, yet it did not make us laugh?

All throughout elementary school, I was head-over-heels in love with one guy. We would spent hours upon hours talking on AIM every night. As the hopeless romantic that I am and always have been, I would overanalyze every little word that we exchanged to either mean something fabulous or to be a sign. For example, when he told me that his favorite song was “Dirty Little Secret” by The All-American Rejects, I thought he only said that to covertly let me know that his love for me was, well, a dirty little secret. So, whenever we were ending our late-night 9pm conversation, I would always throw an “lol” in there. He probably assumed it was a mistake, that I probably meant to write it in another chat, but it wasn’t. Why? I used it to mean “lots of love.” Sneaky, wasn’t I?


Flavor of the Week: Vine

Before Vine fades into the darkness and becomes nothing more than a quintessential #tbt, I wanted to make sure I acknowledged its great presence in the social media world by naming it Flavor of the Week.

As you may or may not know, we are very concerned about the longevity of Vine because Instagram, now basically Mark Zuckerburg and his wife London Tipton, decided to swoop in and cross social boundaries by sitting with the Plastics at lunch enabling a video function.

I have many mixed emotions about this, but my immediate response was that this is blatantly #rude #rude #rude of Insta. It’s like an unspoken rule of apps–you find your medium, and you stick to it. Instagram is for photos, Twitter is for complaining, Facebook is for stalking, and Vine is for a combination of stalking and displaying your wealth or your good-looking boy toy. There is a cuh-lear separation here that Instagram decided to ignore.

I have a Twitter BFF, @LindsayBrandes (def follow her–she’s sometimes obnoxious, always funny… JK, she’s always obnoxious… JK lolz again, love ya Linds), and she was basically having a panic attack over the video app crossover. This was how our conversation went:

Screen shot 2013-07-02 at 6.26.44 PM

In other words, we are having serious white girl problems.

If you were wondering, I decided to stick with Vine for vids and Insta for pics. And, BTW, after taking an antibiotic twice a day and Benadryl three times a day for the past week, my rash/spider bite is finally on the mend!


Flavor of the Week: Group Texts

You love them, you hate them, you love to hate them, and you hate to love them. Basically, we are just really really emotional about group texts. Whether you’re savvy with GroupMe, WhatsApp, or stick to the classic iMessage chat like I do, you are involved of at least two of them. You probably have one with your best best friends and then another with your bigger group of friends, and then a few elsewhere, give or take. We heart these chats for so many reasons. Convenience? Yes. But secretly tedious and often awkward? Also yes.

lol duh I’m in

I see it that group chats linger as the nostalgic descendants of AIM chat rooms. Nothing gave me a thrill quite like being in a, dare I say, coed chat room in elementary school. I loved how everyone’s screen name was a different color and how the intensity of a conversation about who had a crush on who make my blood pressure soar like a vanilla chai, not soy, from Dunkin. And even before chat rooms there were three-way phone calls, which I never really figured out. That was more of a Regina George thing, you know?

What is a home phone?

Group texts do kinda suck. It’s awkward when I type a general question to a solid six people and NOT ONE OF THEM responds. It’s also awkward when two people have some type of side conversation no one else in the chat really understands, and the two of them are fully aware that no one else understands, but they continue to discuss it openly anyway. A group chat can, if desired, be used as a weapon of mass destruction in girl world. Cady Heron would find herself Amanda Bynes-status in that situation. Literally, she’d just skip the level of Miley’s little salvia video and head right to throwing things like her African tribal vase and her Lady Smith Black Mambazo tickets or whatever out of her midtown high rise window.

A group text is like a bad boyfriend—always better to have something awkward, rude, and annoying than to have nothing, right?


Flavor of the Week: Emojis

If there is one aspect of the iPhone that has revolutionized its use–more than its calendar and alarm functions, more than my Neopets app, and more than the birth control reminder–it is the integration of the emoji. For anyone unaware (although being unaware of emojis is comparable to being unaware of the ability to involuntarily breathe), an emoji is a little teeny weeny cartoon face that you can use to communicate on an iPhone. If you have a Droid, you are not relevant. #sorrynotsorry.

Emojis come in all forms, and can portray any possible emotion ever felt by mankind. Ever.

Take this, for example. Once, someone who is kind of anonymous used an emoji to convey to me that he had farted:

IMG_1341

A really big moment was when whoever makes all of the cute emojis in the little emoji factory added the homosexual emojis, which had not previously been of option:

IMG_2247

This also happened recently:

photo

As you can see, conversation via iMessage would not be the same without emojis. Old people hate our generation because we talk by texting and avoiding conversation face-to-face. Whoever thinks that is obviously wrong, because as a millennial, I can honestly say that I have never felt more face-to-face in my life. You can tell more about me by my choice of emoji than you can by reading my Harry Potter glow-in-the-dark diary.

You know what they say–an emoji says a thousand words.


On Muploading vs. Instagramming

I’ve written about muploading before, and in great detail at that, but I feel as though I didn’t dig deep enough. There is an infinite amount of potential expanding to do about the topic of taking photos on your iPhone–if you have a Droid, you can’t sit with us–and I figured that since I refuse to leave my bedroom today as I am physically glued to the new Justin Timberlake album, I may as well expand upon it.

In our nation’s history there have been many great debates: Brown vs. The Board of Education, Roe vs. Wade, the uprising of college students against the Vietnam War draft, and, of course, the current battle of Essie vs. OPI. During my most recent meditation I discovered that there is a very subtle issue that often goes unheard of and can probably be added to this catalogue of 21st century #firstworldproblems. How do you know when you should Instagram a photo as opposed to muploading it???????

Last week, I dissected a cat in Bio. I thought that this would be the perfect opportunity to test out these waters. I took some pics of our deceased cat, which I named Joaquin (pronounced WAH-KEEN for those of you that don’t keep up with trendy baby names), and then I took some selfies. I went through each of the 200 resulting photos and tried to decide which ones I wanted to mupload and which ones I wanted to Instagram. Fine, I was exaggerating. I went through the process with the resulting 86 photos. Fine, 75. 75 I swear. After this trial, I appointed myself Supreme Court Justice of the iPhone megapixel camera and came up with a solid list for when one should Insta-G a photo and when one should mupload it. Here is my organized research:

You should Instagram a photo if…

…you think it would look absolutely perf with a little bit of Hudson, X-Pro II or some Amaro up in that shiz.

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…you can’t tag anyone it in. For example, your Starbucks latte does not have a Facebook account, so you cannot tag it on Facebook, so it will not show up on the news feed unless you mupload it by itself, which would be super weird, and since it will not be on the news feed, no one would like it, so you will seem like a total weirdo loser. If you Instagram it, however, you will get minimum 11 likes–just enough to make you look popular–so you’re set.

…it will make people jealous of what you are wearing, what you are eating, where you are vacationing, etc. That way you can be subtly obnoxious, but not overly obnoxious.

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Example: this could have made people jealous that someone gave me a bouquet of red roses (which look pink due to my poor filter choice).

…you are doing something illegal. No explanation needed. If you feel like you need an explanation for this one, then you shouldn’t have an Instagram to begin with.

…you take an attractive selfie. It will get lots of likes, and make you look drop dead gorgeous amongst light, sun-soaked tones.

You should mupload a photo if…

…you really, like, really, want people to see it.

…you look good/better than the other people in the photo. Duh.

…the picture is funny. Instagrams are meant to be glamourous, i.e. Kim Kardashian’s account (JK LOL), or cute, i.e. Soul Cycle’s account. If it’s funny, Facebook it.

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Facebook’d.

…it will make your ex-boyfriend jealous. Because it will. (Also, only boys like Scott Disick and Justin Bieber’s swag coach Ryan Good really utilize Instagram in the same way that we do, so your photo probably won’t reach your ex that well. Then again, if a guy is your ex chances are he’s of the Scott Disick-type. Then again (again), if you Instagram it, girls that are friends with your ex will see it. This one is kinda debatable but not really because muploading is probably the answer. Muploading is always the answer.)

…you take an unattractive selfie. It will get lots of likes, and make you look cute and funny.

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I muploaded this photo of my friend Louis and myself from our cat dissection.

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This is the conversation that ensued when I asked Louis for permission to use his face on The FYD.

I think that one day, I would like to write an iPhone bible. I say this especially considering my experiences with Facebook, Twitter…….. and, how could I forget, Tinder!!!?? (Read this for elaboration on all of the aforementioned.) For now, though, I am going to get back in bed–just kidding, I never left bed–and listen to this 10-minute JT song for the sixteenth time.


On Being a “Millennial”

Earlier in the week, Joel Stein wrote a cover story for Time magazine about our generation, the “millennials,” and how narcissistic we are. The Fro-Yo Diaries embodies the millennial attitude (from my perspective, of course, and that perspective clearly differs from Joel Stein’s). But, just to give you all a run for your money–whatever that expression means (what a millennial comment of me to make)–I’ve decided to write about my most “millennial” moments. I would encourage everyone to read Joel Stein’s article, but you can only do that by obtaining a physical copy/subscription of Time. Obviously they restrict us from reading a full copy of the article online because, like, if they did, that would be so millennial of them.

Millennial Moment #1:

My mom often criticizes me for making a mess and then not cleaning it up. The other day, I was eating some dried apricots from their plastic container and decided that for the first time in my life, I would put them back in the cabinet when I was done with them. As I was standing in front of the cabinet, seriously struggling to re-seal the lid, my mom charged into the kitchen. This is the conversation that ensued:

Mom: Hannah, will you move please?

Me: Hold on, I’m just putting this thing away.

Mom: HANNAH I HAVE NOT EATEN ONE THING TODAY, NOT BREAKFAST, LUNCH, OR DINNER.

Me: OK, OK, I’m done. Relax. I’ve made dinner for myself the past two nights. It’s not a big deal.

Mom: DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND I HAVEN’T EATEN ANYTHING ALL DAY????????

Joel, how horribly rude and obnoxious was it of me to try to put my apricots away?!?!

Millennial Moment #2:

I make my parents pay $175 for me to have a 45 minute session with my therapist twice a month. Now if that isn’t selfish of me, then what is? I mean, anxiety doesn’t even exist anyway. And young adults don’t have problems. And young adults aren’t allowed to complain. Because we aren’t spending 14 hours of our day studying and working. Because instead we’re playing on our iPhones. Which we solely use for Tinder to meet fake people that that boost our egos, and not for medication-reminders or to set alarms so we make sure our two hours of sleep don’t interfere with getting to class on time or to keep track of our schedules in a calendar (just like you do) or to, God-forbid, have a means through which our neurotic Jewish mothers can use the “Find My Friends” app to see where we are at all times. No, no. Never any of that.

Millennial Moment #3:

I went back through all of my text messages and counted: on Saturday, May 11, I sent 64 text messages. This is actually a really low number for me, as most millennials spend their Saturday afternoons super hungover from going to wild techno raves the previous night, which we do, wearing neon clothes, practically every weekend. But if I went back to my texts from Friday and counted–which a millennial would never do because that requires too much manual labor (you know, all that scrolling)–I’m sure my stats would at least be tripled.

Millennial Moment #4:

Please watch this video in which Joel Stein tries to be a millennial for a day.

Then, ask yourself: have you EVER sexted by saying “Do you have time to have sex tonight?” No, obviously you haven’t. Millennials would never waste that much time on writing a text message. Obvs, we love to abbrev (Obviously, we love to abbreviate). Our sexts would look a lot more like this:

D u hav tme 2 hav S tn?

Note: S is capital, inferring the use of the abbreviation for “sex” and not “snapchat,” which is represented by a lowercase “s.”

This essay is dedicated to Joel Stein, slanderer of the selfie, denature-er of the multitask, and green monster of envy of how successful we’re going to be when we create the flying cars that you watched in The Jetsons–not that I, or any other millennial, even really has the capability to comprehend what a Saturday morning cartoon is. Just because your last name is “Stein” does not mean that you have a free pass to target our generation and still be considered a mensch.