Nothing spoke to me on such a personal level as the last episode of Girls. Watching Hannah's every shooting star Hannah every wished on fall hopes of being a success at writing what you want to write, not what people tell you to write. The silent funeral that brings might be a right of passage to adulthood. It also might be the saddest departure from a dream to a reality that every young writer travels alone. The question is do you become the GQ , concerned with the her new kitchen's tile, peddling material goods to the masses, or do you always call home, asking for money unable to make it alone? I can remember turning down a front desk position at Interview Magazine because the pay was so low I would have had to commute from Hoboken and knew that by the time I finally was home in any comfortable way, the writer in me would have been fast asleep. Not to mention too hungry and worried about paying the landloard to focus on my next short story. So what do you do? I suppose forget writing and just become a fashion designer. Then maybe you can even have a cameo on a hit tv show.
Oh that's just Jenna Lyons from J. Crew. Who else could walk onto the scene of Girls without having to act like she was busy because she really WAS busy, working for, oh I don't know, the only important clothing company that ever has and ever will existed. Don't argue with me on this. It's like arguing that the Beatles weren't a big deal. I love you Jenna Lyons. I love your over-sized glasses and folded nepalese fabric skin, its lines along your black antique button keyhole eyes that have been seeing things like terrible fashion since the 1600's and know now how to fix it. I lke that when you talk it sounds like you already said it before and wished you didn't have to say it again, but you're used to it. I like that you get up and walk away when you are done because there are other things to do. I just like you Jenny. And you will never know I existed. Or your probably already do but don't really care. You'll probably live to 165 and still look the same, those nepalese silk eyes smoothed out, and I'll have died at 50 of not being able to afford the new tweed jacket in the spring 2040 edition. I'm sure it was the double embossed elbows that did me in. With those elbows, who knows who I could have been?
It will be written on my gravestone, hopefully in an alias, hopefully they won't be able to afford the etching matchin because they spent every penny on a proper dress for my eternal robe. They could keep it anonymous and simply write: She died from J.Crew, her love for that place finally killed her. No house, no way to afford the operation. But damn, did she look good in those leather pixie pants.