Winter is coming. It’s raining, it’s cold, it’s miserable, and you can’t wear your crop top anymore. Facu is even buttoning up his shirt, nary a chest hair in sight. It’s Netflix and chill season, cuffing season, hibernation season, call it want you want but the point is, much like the girls from Grey Gardens, we ain’t going outside.
Here’s the answer to your frostbitten prayers – a list of pre-made excuses for why you cannot make it your that brunch your friend is throwing to celebrate her overly instagrammed cat’s birthday.
You are welcome.
This coat can’t go outside
Do you see this coat? I got it at Cher. Do you see how the leather and the suede make me look alluring but still approachably sophisticated at the same time? This coat can not go outside. It is not for warmth. It makes my outfit — please never mention the word parka to me again, we shan’t speak of this incident. No – I’m sorry.
This coat can’t be taken off inside
Do you see this coat? I got it at Koxis.
I don’t trust the coat check. Do you see how it is a part of my outfit? It keeps me so snuggly warm while I’m outside. I cannot take this coat off inside. It’s an ensemble. So I cannot go to the club. I will simply overheat. I have to go home now. Sorry.
My Sube card has no money on it
Do you see this Sube Card. It is not charged. I would have to walk to the kiosco to charge it. And we both know that the man at the kiosco has been judging the volume of my Kinder Surprise purchases. He does not understand the flare of childlike joy I get when I see Argentina’s lax stance on choking hazards materialize into the toy car awaiting me inside that chocolate shell. Thus, I cannot get on the bus. Sorry I have some packaging to eat.
I cannot wear my crop top
Do you see this crop top? I got it at Cuesta Blanca. This crop top exposes my stomach. I did three crunches to get this one-pack you see before you. It will not be covered. That would be oppression, and I promised myself on January 1st that this would be a year of equality. I am following He for She on Instagram, I can’t turn back now. Sorry, call me to hang out when I can ill-advisedly expose my pudgy flesh.
I am listening to Lemonade
I was going to come out, I promise. But… “Hold Up” came up on my shuffle, and then “Don’t Hurt Yourself” and then “Sorry” and well, then the whole album. I am just allowing myself to process the feelings I have about my cheating boyfriend – who is imaginary – but hurts me nonetheless. I think I need to stay into tonight and cry a little bit and search for feminist quotes for my pinterest boards.
The weather makes me want to die
When I step outside I feel that I may die of frostbite for a tiny second and I am forced to contemplate the meaning of my pointless fernet-drenched exist. For a minute I might begin to wonder if maybe it is time to leave Buenos Aires for sunnier climes. Perhaps a surf lodge. Maybe it will be full of Australians. Is that what you want? Do you want me to leave? Do you want me to meet an Australian? I thought that we were friends.
My eyeliner is Dior. My eyeliner is not waterproof. When I step outside tears will begin to form in my eyes. My tears from the cold will remind me of my tears of sadness which will remind me of Lemonade and my imaginary boyfriend. The tears will fall gracefully down my cheeks and I will have to wipe them away with my finger, and I will have to check that finger for smudges to make sure my eyeliner is in place. Much like a sad panda, if a sad panda were leaving her shift at a strip club. We can’t have that, I have an illusion of shit-togetherness to maintain.
I don’t want to see you
I’m sorry, but I do not care for your personality. Please contact me when your pileta re-opens in October.
I am poor
I had money, but then I moved to Argentina and spent it all in the first month at Las Cabras because I thought pesos were monopoly money. It could happen to anyone.
I am sorry, really.