She shortens all her skirts another half inch.

Lately I’ve enjoyed freestyling quick snapshots in my Notes app that I’d collectively call “HOW IT FEELS TO BE ALIVE RIGHT NOW.” Usually a blend of diary and fiction to flex my imagination and confuse my future self, but mostly as a way to flush out the melancholic instincts, a progressive neutering of whatever hippothalamalceresomething is responsible.

I’m on the train writing the above because I’m pissed off about being marketed to 24/7. But then I read this article about Kevin Durant’s viral CeraVe moisturizer campaign—which I clearly loved enough to research— and the guerrilla tactics are so clever and diabolical that I actually start to respect these people. Am I that easily manipulated by the creative director archetype?

Roll into the office at 1 PM in a black maxi dress with a huge black off-the-shoulder sweater, sunglasses, and Nikes on… hair up disheveled in a claw clip, MAC eyeliner in Costa Riche smudged on haphazardly, smelling “like a Macy’s” according to my husband who wouldn’t let me near the baby after three spritzes of Mon Guerlain.

I accidentally say “good morning” to the security guy and he laughs and I shout “only here to get my badge swipe!” and he’s like “HEARD THAT!” Take the elevator straight to the 43rd floor caf where I get a giant Chinese chicken salad and a can of Diet Coke for $2.50 total. How so cheap? you may wonder. Don’t interrogate the corporate mystique, beloved.

Now it’s a staring contest: me vs 100 open tabs. Enormous pile of work before me and I feel calm. Calmer than usual, calmer than ever. For once, I don’t rack my brain for the source of tranquility. Instead, I pour my Diet Coke over a paper cup of ice—the little balls, the Good Ice—and the fizz makes an excellent soundtrack for my enlightened state. I plug away at some bullshit and think to myself: On the way home, I will stop to procure a pair of very large sunglasses. Something in me longs to hide; the spectacle of belly precedes me in every exchange. To think, I’m only 20 weeks!

Say what you want about that old perv Bukowski, but this passage from Hot Water Music has been on my mind for weeks:

“She tells me that she’ll be all right if I let her go to a ceramics class every Wednesday evening. All right, I say. But nothing works. She takes to attacking me with knives. There’s blood everywhere. My blood. It’s on the walls and in the rugs. She’s very swift on her feet. She’s into ballet, yoga, herbs, vitamins, eats seeds, nuts, all that shit, carries a bible in her purse, half the pages underlined in red ink. She shortens all her skirts another half inch.”

I know this woman. Femme fatale in the health food store. Spiritually wayward, a violent romantic. If it weren’t for those bursts of artistic mania, she would float back into the sky where she came from. Man can only write her from experience. And only Angelina Jolie can play her in a film.

The art and entertainment I’ve been engaging with lately rely on this kind of addictive paradox. I mean, now that I think about it, that’s usually what makes anything good: at least a hint of the unexpected. Probably because it mirrors life more closely that way. Take, for example, the song “Life We Live” by Project Pat. The dreamy beat and optimistic chorus buff out the pain of the verses; the end result is a gleaming reflection on going from surviving to thriving. I could listen to it all day. (I have been.)

I’m currently watching the Real Housewives of Rhode Island. This is the first time I’ve watched a Bravo production from its inception and mindfully i.e., not as background noise. Whenever I tried getting into the franchise in the past, I found myself overwhelmed by the sheer volume in front of me. These shows have like, 15 fucking seasons with 20 episodes apiece. Not to mention, the real reason you watch Housewives is to strengthen your alliance with gay guys and Revolve shoppers, the visionary cohort they are; it’s hard to relate when your starting point is 2006.

Rhode Island is brand new. Episodes air on Mondays. It’s given me something to look forward to every week, especially in my anti-social, infirm state of pregnancy. It’s like, I’m eating buttered white bread and my muscles have atrophied but this drama between Rosie and Kelsey, whom I can barely tell apart, keeps me going.

Anyway, I bring up Rhode Island as an example of juicy entertainment fraught with contradiction, yes, but really as an excuse to talk about Alicia Carmody. I have not loved a television character (personality?) this much since LaKeith Stanfield as Darius in Atlanta.

Alicia Carmody comes from a large Italian family in Cranston, RI. Her accent is a stand-up comedian’s most outrageous Mark Wahlberg impression. Tiny and beautiful and rough around the edges, Alicia is framed as the ditz of the bunch. However, I see her for the esoteric coquette star she is. Alicia survives on ziplocks of saltines (her “crackas”). She flips shit when her words are taken out of context—and not in a neatly packaged TV drama way, but in the manner of a woman who has been misunderstood her entire life. Most importantly, she has this massive doll collection. When they visit Newport for a girls’ trip, she hosts a doll luncheon complete with a carriage and seats at the table for the dolls. Alicia has daddy issues and fiancé issues and I suspect her e-girlish depth will be on full display as the season continues. You heard it here first!

MORE CONTENT FOR THE GIRLS! I forgot to share this little MAC1 haul with you. By “haul,” I mean three fantastic products that I ordered half asleep a couple weeks ago:

1. Lustreglass Sheer-Shine Lipstick in shade Alone Time: This is officially my favorite lipstick I’ve ever applied. 1000/10. I already knew I loved the Lustreglass formula because I had shade $ELLOUT (also very good) a couple years ago. Alone Time is this perfect mauvey brown that I’m convinced looks good on everyone.

2. Silky Matte Lipstick in shade Folio: Described as a greyish nude, this was allegedly a popular shade in the 90s, resurrected/reformulated for today’s cool-toned craze. Folio is such a bizarre shade, I can’t get enough of it. Not something you casually swipe on unless you favor a “living dead girl” vibe a la Rob Zombie. But a little tap, tap, tap and blend and you’ve got something special. It’s multi-use, too: Swipe for a quick contour, rub some on your lids, knock yourself out.

3. Eye Kohl Eyeliner in shade Costa Riche: Another product I can confidently call “my favorite I’ve ever applied.” This is why MAC is goated! Costa Riche is theeee perfect black eyeliner alternative for those of us who lean warmer. I’ve been using various browns as my daily drivers for a while, but this really takes the cake. Smudges gorgeously and lasts all day.