Old Jewish farts fart Jews a lot.

Dear Katie,
That guy was a DOUCHEBAG, but in happier news, I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be an old Jew. I am very qualified for the position of an old Jew for the following reasons:

1)Feeding people is a hobby of mine--chopped liver, gefite fish, matzo ball soup, ruggelah, mandel brot--I can cook it all. Whenever a friend of mine is looking thin, having a bad day, or bored, I am always ready to give them sustenance.

2) I am willing to sit in the dark. If there is a problem that requires people helping me, I would much rather sit and suffer than make them go out of their way. I can also make them feel guilty while doing it.

3) Florida is my favorite.

4) Early bird specials don't bother me too much. I am always looking for a bargain, and if that means eating way before the sun goes down, bring it on.

5) I am wearing a belted sweater dress, reminiscent of Dorothy Spornak as I type this.

6) Yiddush is like a second language to me. A second language that I know about ten words of. I can put a yiddush word into every other sentence to make me know what I am talking about. If this is a problem, I can take courses at the Jewish Community Center to improve my skills.

7)My grandparents were "snowbirds" for a very long time, moving to Florida permanently from their "adult community" in New Jersey when I was ten. Spending time with them meant that I was constantly surrounded by old Jews that I now aspire to emulate.

8) I'm Jewish. Duh.

If anyone requests a more complete resume, or references, I am working on them as we speak. This is turning from a crazy career idea to something that could really happen. I'll keep you posted on my path to becoming an Old Jew. In the meantime, I'm gonna go play shuffleboard and eat some pickled herring.
Love,
Brianna

Danga! Danga! (pronounced like danger, except you leave off the r)

Dear Brianna,

Good thing I didn't come to the bar with you last night, because if I had been present at this "cab debacle" I may have either

A. jumped on top of the cab, crawled onto the roof so that I could reach my hand into the window and grab the guys ugly face, ripping his skin with my nails and raw tenacity.

or

B. Thrown something at the cab that would have broken one of the windows. The cab driver would stop, get out and walk towards me. I would pick up a trash can and throw it at his head, causing him to fall over. Then, I would run up to him, spit on his fucking face and NAIL him in the balls.

Funny thing here is that I probably would have really thrown something at the cab. You know how violent I am. Sometimes, violence is the only way to communicate with assholes. So thanks Baltimore, for making me bitter, violent, short tempered and completely self doubting!

I have pretty much been completely alone in my room for about 24 hours, and I'm going prettttty nuts. I went out to breakfast this morning, but that was the only time I ventured outside after about 5 o'clock on Saturday. Don't get me wrong, I love being alone, but after a certain point I tend to go a little crazy. There is only so much Celebrity fit club, There and Back, True Life, Project Runway and E! True Hollywood story you can watch. I've found myself talking aloud to these people, yelling at Ashley Parker Angel from There and Back about wiping his ass in the kitchen where his mother in law could see him, and complaining aloud about E! television's lack of actual good programming. I've driven myself to the point where I just want to drink alone because I have nothing better to do! (I haven't done that yet) I think my roommates heard me singing along to Billy Joel and the Rent soundtrack, but that's just too bad...I couldn't hold back. People already think I'm crazy, so why not just roll with it? There are so many things crazy people can get away with that we cannot, so if people think I'm crazy, I'm actually at an advantage. Maybe they'll start buying me food because they think I can't actually do that for myself! This may be a blessing!!

Love,
Katie

Twelve

Dear Katie,
The average woman in America is a size twelve, and I am not affraid to admit to our millions of readers that I fit into this statistic. Pun most certainly intended. After enjoying a beer with some friends at The Peculier (I don't know why it is spelled with an E) Pub in the East Village, two friends and I decided to splurge on a cab ride home. Both of my friends are petite, sassy looking ladies, and while I am sassy looking myself, I don't share the same svelte frame. There were no cabs in sight, and the bitter cold wind was hitting us in gusts strong enough to make even me lose my balance.
A cab pulled up with the window open, and an ugly, chubby guido (sorry Italian readers) leaned out and yelled, "Hey ladies! Two of you are pretty, but the other one is FAT!" It took me a moment to realize that I was the fat one because the only times I have been referred to as fat are by my mother or my interior, self-concious dialogue. Before I could do anything, my one friend started yelling at the guy, calling him a cuntbag. All I could do was yell, "Go home and puke on yourself while you're NOT getting laid," as the cab pulled away. If I could pick any moment in time to go back to, I would go back to that one and punch him in the face. Right in his big, ugly, bulbous nose.
I don't want this entry to turn into a montage from a chick flick, with me saying how I am a beautiful intellegent girl, and it doesn't matter what some ugly drunk fuck has to say about me, but I can't help but feel a little discomforted by the whole situation. It is amazing how quickly another person, a stranger even, can bring you down from a ten to a zero in a mere thirty seconds. I guess it was only a matter of time before something like this happened to me. You can't walk around being chubby these days without someone having something to say about it, however I don't want to know what you have to say. So Mr. Guido, I hope you are fucking your mom right now, because she is the only person that will ever love a worthless piece of shit like yourself.
Love,
Brianna

PS- Sorry about the Wayne Newton, Steven Segal mixup. After a certain amount of plastic surgery and botox, people start looking alike.

Research?

Dear Brianna,

The guy in the top picture is most definitely Wayne Newton.

I'm a little offended you thought he was Steven Segal. They're not even in the same category.

That is all.

Love,
Katie

P.S. I think Carrot Top is the person I despise most in the world.

HLMs of the world unite!

Dear Katie,
This week hasn't been so good for us, but I think I found the perfect way to cheer us up.

Look at this other pair of heterosexual life mates having a great time on two separate occasions. Nothing says levity like Steven Segal, and we can all take a cue from Carrot Top by giving peace a chance.

Love,

Brianna

don't touch my heine(ken)!

Dear Brianna,

This post is going to take me forever to write because I am drunk and I need to press the delete key a lot. That being said, I would like to write a noble and moving post.

Drinking underage is illegal.

Love,
Katie

P.S. pay no attention to the time of these posts because my fucking mac doesn't let me change the time. I was not drinking alone at 8:30 in the evening. It's really 11:38, and I was at a party four doors down, people. So don't judge me. Or judge me. I don't give a shit.

P.P.S
I BOUGHT RENT TODAYYYYY! THREE DISCS!

Reality TV Makes me Cry

Dear Katie,
That reminds of me of the now defunct MTV show, "I Want a Famous Face." At first, everyone was outraged because they thought MTV was paying for people to deform their faces to look like the celebrities promoted every day on the channel. The important information that MTV failed to publicize properly was that these people were going to get the surgery no matter what, and MTV was just there to document their transformations.
The episode that I remember best was about a "boy" named Jessica. I quote marked "boy" because Jessica was in fact a man who lived his life as a woman and was getting surgery to look like Jennifer Lopez. When finished with the surgery, Jessica looked more mannish than she/he did originally, and the damages were irreversible. A lot of people give MTV slack about their programming, but Jessica's story was only one of many from MTV's news and docs productions that left me thinking and crying. Don't forget the crying.
There was a more recent show on MTV called True Life: I am Obese. I was having a particularly low self-esteem day, as girls tend to do once a month, and I could barely see the tv screen because I was crying through the whole show. There was a boy, a big big boy who was a senior in high school, who just kept eating and getting fatter with the hopes that he could get gastric bypass one day. At one point, he was sitting in a pool. wearing a bathing suit and a shirt, waiting for nobody to look at him so that he could get out of the water. Another lady weighed about 600 pounds because she got this horrible disease that left her unable to move. Her husband was caring and wonderful, and as a favor/gift to him, she agreed to go out to dinner. He had to push her around the restaurant in a wheelchair, and throughout their meal, the other dining patrons were staring at them and making hurtful comments. As if this lady didn't have it hard enough.
I guess the bottom line is that reality tv is a powerful tool, but with shows like "The Gauntlet," "Next," and "Flava of Love" (which I love) that power will remain unused.
Love,
Brianna

Why do we never get an answer, when we're knocking at the door?

Dear Brianna,

Have you ever seen someone who has had a lot of plastic surgery done to their face try to cry? Like actually generate tears? Like actually let the tear ducts in their face release the water that has suddenly built up in a fit of unhappiness? The mouth tries to form a frowning position, but instead takes the form of an uncomfortable constipation type face?

I was watching this show called "Intervention" on A&E and this family was calling out this women who had some addiction, I don't remember what, but her face was fucking pulled tighter than that new single from JLO (HOLLA!). Somehow the topic of the conversation in the show turned to rape, i guess she was raped, and her face started to twitch like she was trying to cry, but her face is permanently smiling so it's obviously hard for her to change that so that she can frown. I was completely captivated by her incapability to control her facial muscles. She has to look the same all the time no matter how she feels. Her puffed out collagen filled lips have to hold that red lip stick that she had tattooed on last year when she was down on herself, forever. Her forehead can never generate wrinkles. Seriously, think about it for a second. What if you could never show your emotions through your face? How would you ever be a mime?

Good thing I haven't had plastic surgery, because it's time for me to go have myself a good cry while watching Celebrity Fit Club. Jeff Conaway is back, and I'm so proud of him. He's been through a lot, you know, and he really tries to please everyone, but sometimes you just can't handle everything on your own, you know what I mean, and it's really hard to be alone for so long, and maybe he just wants love because he's lonely and he found love in the bottom of a bottle because a bottle will never judge you, you know, and I can partially relate with that, you know that fragility of humanity and the fluctuation of the need for acceptance and the complete disregard for other people. He's hurting and I feel it.

Love,
Katie

Retail Therapy

Dear Katie,
After seeing the super duper German coat you bought at Urban for 5 bucks, I decided to try my luck, and take a trip there. What I found at both the Urban on West 4th and the one on 14th, is that shopping isn't as relaxing as it used to be, and retail therapy could quite possibly be a myth. Upon my arrival at the store, I smiled at the security guard, and made my way straight to the sale section. In a logical world, the sale section would be set up in a wide open space, as it is probably the most popular and crowded part of the store, but at Urban, they shove racks into a space the size of a closet and leave the customers to fend for themselves. Whenever I am in this situation, I think of the commercials for DSW Shoe Warehouse, where women are portrayed as wild animals, stalking out shoe prey, while a bongo drum, jungle-esque tune plays in the background. I don't want to live up to this stereotype, but it is hard to walk the logical path through the racks when other people completely disregard the order and walk willy nilly through the aisles. My supposed to be relaxing trip was quickly turning into a stressful situation, fueled by aggressive hipsters trying to get a good deal on some Diesel jeans. While I am happy with my purchases, I felt no sense of refreshment after my day of shopping. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I had a headache from the incessant blarings of Arcade Fire, Modest Mouse, and White Stripes that Urban insisted on playing at top volume. I think I need to look for a different way to blow off steam, before my money and my patience runs out.
Love,
Brianna

the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire

Dear Brianna,

Remember last night when we drank that wine that comes in a jug? Carlo Rossi Sangria? Yeah, it was gross.

Valentine's day was another "success" as in nothing bad happened. EXCEPT, I did get to see a table fire at BAM, and that was amazing. The bus boys were panicking and had no idea what to do, and I couldn't help but laugh. I'm still battling with that case of asshole I just can't seem to get over.

OoOo, guess what I decided today? I'm going to take myself to Europe when I graduate. I want to go to London, and Paris, and Rome, and and and AMSTERDAM! I'm going to smoke weed and it will be legal! Think of it B! No repercussions! And then I'm going to have a torrid affair with an Italian man who only speaks one language--the language of love. We both speak it. We don't need to say anything, we let the love do the speaking. Then, when it's time for me to come back to NY, I'll leave him a note, and on the inside will be a sketch of a heart ripped in two. He'll know that that means we can never see each other again, you know, in love speak. Sometimes, when I'm looking at the Manhattan skyline out of my Brooklyn window, I will think of him and the love we shared. I will blow a kiss and know that somewhere, where ever he is, he'll catch it and bring that kiss close to his heart. He'll whisper into the Italian night air "Amore" and I will catch it with my eardrums and send it to my heart via my blood stream. This will go on for a few weeks after I return, until I fall in love with a new Swedish tourist that speaks the language of dreams. A language we both speak.

love,
Katie :)

I used to be (still am) a nerd.

Dear Katie,
It is common knowledge that I am a little obsessive compulsive about certain things, and by certain things, I mean everything. I have a way of doing things and there are certain possibilities out there that I would never even think of entertaining. Until recently, my underwear would always match my socks, I wouldn't eat meat in public, I couldn't fast forward through the credits of a taped copy of SNL, and I would have to perform countless other behaviors that had crept their way into my life over the past twenty-one years. The reason I remind you of all this is that times are changing. Wednesday night, I said goodbye to the old Brianna. The Brianna plagued with idiosyncracies went away, and left room for the new Brianna to be ushered in. On Wednesday night, I ate a kids meal at Wendy's. With that action, I broke the rules about eating alone in public, eating fast food, and eating beef that my mom didn't buy. I also sat at the table right in front of the window so that all of the passerby could bear witness to my reinvention. After my life-changing meal, I did one more thing that cemented my new existence. Against my better judgement, I used a starbucks restroom. The restroom was filthy, and a discarded paper seat cover was draped over the toilet, but I removed it, and peed anyway. Granted I used a piece of toilet paper to pick up the seat cover, but that isn't weird, it is sanitary. Anyway, I have many new avenues to explore, now that I have been freed from the chains of compulsion. I am going to let the waiters pile the dirty plates at restaurants, I'm going to tell people that I have BOTH Ashlee Simpson albums on my ipod, and I am going to live a life that tells the world how daring and adventurous I now am.
Love,
Brianna

Look! She's taking after me already!

Dear Brianna,


Isn't she cute?

I guess it won't be SO bad to go home this weekend. PLUS, she's already giving the middle finger, and I can't say no to a girl after my own heart.

Love,
Katie

P.S. now you can post your comment, happy?

My Friend

Dear Katie,
I have a friend who might or might not be an RA. Because she might or might not be an RA she can't go to Harold Night. Because she can't go to Harold Night, my friend might nor might not be really peeved. She has a right to be really peeved because she might or might not have an RA meeting every Tuesday. Because she might or might not have an RA meeting every Tuesday, my friend can never go to Harold Night. Because she can never go to Harold Night she feels tied down by the job that she might or might not have.
Love,
Brianna

PS- Don't tell my friend that I told you this.

ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ahhhhhhhhhhhh Stayin' Aliveeeeee

Dear Brianna,

Sorry I missed the Super Bowl Party; I fell asleep. But, let me tell you something ma'am, that sleep was spectacular. In fact, it was so good, I may go do some more of this "sleeping" really soon. I better not get used to this waking up rested thing because then I will expect to feel good when waking up, when in actuality, waking is the worst part of my day. Want to know why? Because in dream land, things are free and there is casual sex without repercussions.

Love,
Katie

P.S.
I was reading over the other posts from us, and it's funny how you described me. "things only she can tell you about..." haha! Come on Brianna! I tell people about my daughter all the time! After all, she is the bread winner, being on "Lizzy Macguire" and "That's so Raven." I can't hide a 6 foot tall 6 year old; it's physically hard.

I didn't tell you this

Dear Katie,
I might have just watched the Steve Martin SNL, and it might have been the best episode of the past couple of seasons. I might have really really enjoyed it, and I might have wished that we could talk about it.
Love,
Brianna

Hey, remember that one time? oh yeah, it's always.

Dear Brianna,

Remember that one time I was really awkward? Oh wait, that's all the time. My bad.

Sometimes, I feel like I need a life coach. Or at least someone who can tell me what to say and do, and how to walk, smile and give complements. That would be super helpful.

Love,
Katie

P.S.
Great show last night!

A Serious Post

Dear Katie,
Thad gave this story to us in studio today, and I thought it was compelling.

We know only four boring people. The rest of our friends we find very interesting. However, most of the friends we find interesting find us boring: the most interesting find us the most boring. The few who are somewhere in the middle, with whom there is reciprocal interest, we distrust: at any moment, we feel, they may become too interesting for us, or we too interesting for them.
-Lydia Davis

Just some food for thought.
Love,
Brianna

PS- Yeah, I can be sentimental...Jealous?

Bigmouth Strikes Again!

Dear Brianna,

Who knew moving could suck so hard? I kind of knew, but it still sucks. It sucks even more when you're an idiot like me and you leave your keys to the new room IN THE NEW ROOM and the roommates leave and lock them in. So, that's why I'm on blogger. Because I'm an idiot.

Love,
Katie

P.S.
You are a hipster, but at least you're not a hipster asshole or a poser. AND, you don't ride the L-Train which gives you a fare turnaround rate back to artist. Also, the lines between hipster and artist are very blurred.

P.P.S
The title of this post is a Smith's song. YOU GET IT? HAHAHAHA I WIN!

Hipster Sassafrass

Dear Katie,
Today in the elevator, I bent over to adjust my leggings, and I realized that yes I was wearing leggings, and yes I was adjusting them, which are both common actions of a fucking hipster. I tried to convince myself that I shouldn't be worried, that I am a nice normal girl, but then I saw my leopard print flats, cut off denim skirt, extra long hoodie, and realized that I might be a fucking hipster. I am really very worried about this, and we better go to the GAP tommorow and then drink smoothies from Jamba Juice so that I can un-hip myself. But wait... if I wore GAP and drank smoothies, I would be a yuppie. Is a yuppie better than a hipster? Fuck. You just can't win these days.

PS-My post is tropical colored, and it would match your poncho.

Hey World, Here comes Brianna!

Dear Brianna,

Good thing you took green cause I hate Green! Just kidding, I like green, and I would make my text a color if I only knew how. But you still don't know how to post links or pictures, so we're even. Anyway, thanks for telling me you don't ever want to sleep with me. That really meant a lot. Because sometimes, I just like to cuddle with no further involvement. But, now that I see where we stand, I shall never mention this subject again.

Brianna Hope Jacobson was born far far away on a tiny farm, also known as New Jersey, and hasn't lived there in a really long time. Her father works on big metal birds, so her family moved around a lot, and she laments about moving all the time, all the time. Brianna's new drink of choice would have to be the screwdriver, and I never really knew her to drink until I became her friend and corrupted her. So, sorry if you didn't know her before me, she was probably better or something. Anyway, Brianna believes Seth Green to be her soul mate, and will tell you this because it's not a secret. She also enjoys vintage clothing, comedy related things, Project runway, being neurotic and reading. Also, just a note for those of you who may be planning on living with Brianna in the future: She hates it when you don't do your dishes right away (I never do) and she won't let you smoke weed in the house. I learned the hard way and had to sleep in the dog house for a night or two. Oh, wait, she didn't know about the weed thing. SHIT.

BYE!

Love,
Katie

Dear Katie,
I am going to write my entries in green so people can tell us apart. And no, I do NOT want to sleep with you. At all. Ever. But what I want to do is introduce you to our millions and billions of readers. Is it still considered third person if you are writing about someone else using their name? Does it even matter? Here goes nothing...
Katie Cheek is a studying writing in her sophomore year at Pratt Institute. (It is an institute, not a university.) She was raised in Baltimore, but was ready to get out of there as quickly as possible. She endured some things that only she can tell you about, and then made her big move to Brooklyn. A lover of all things fun, Katie spends her days watching, practicing, and writing comedy, eating cereal, drinking vodka, giving campus tours, dancing to the Backstreet Boys, watching reruns of Sweet Sixteen, and juggling all that life throws at her.
That is you in a nutshell. A very vague, non-particular nutshell. It is a mystery nut covered in sugar and brown shit that they sell at the Nuts 4 Nuts carts. So it's your turn. Introduce me biotch.
Love,
Brianna

Hi, We're non gay life partners!

Dear Internet land,

Brianna Jacobson and Katie Cheek are heterosexual. They also have no interest in dating or having sex with one another. But that doesn't mean they can't be life mates, does it? We don't think so. And that's why we're bringing you our experiences as Heterosexual life mates.

Love,
Katie