My "Girl Hiring P/T Boyfriend" (Craigslist Posting)

Finally got around to memorializing the Craigslist posting I wrote a little over a month ago, in search of a part-time boyfriend, that amounted to nothing. Admittedly, I was pretty bummed because I was convinced my future boyfriend was lurking somewhere on the Internet, on Craigstlist. I presume all the decent ones spend their free time looking for boyfriend gigs online anyway!
(Click below to enlarge and read. Enjoy.)

My Automated Response 

(for the record, Conor Ford is a dear friend and colleague of mine whom I would never imagine dating in a million years because he is overqualified. His application was a kind and friendly gesture, and I adore him all the more for it.):

We Walked Into a Speakeasy

On the way to the subway, we walk by two men grilling on a Charcoal. It's steak. We stop to flare our noses and inhale deeply. We must have looked desperate because they invite us inside, "the oldest speakeasy in Brooklyn, girls! Thursday nights are our best." We pause, pass, and walk three blocks. The smell of steak is still clinging to our ankles, so we turn around and follow it back to the speakeasy.

We walk in, it's Midnight In Paris, Woody Allen's film. Both of us marvel at how lucky we are; two paycheck-to-paycheck gals who can barely afford plane tickets out of the state, suddenly finding themselves in a different decade. Girls are wearing matted rouge and frilly garments, whispering out loud and laughing widely. We're embarrassed by our own dull appearance (to be fair, we didn't know we were going to time travel). There is a gray-haired man singing about love and heartbreak (what else) in a soulful baritone. A guy on the piano with shoulder-length hair who also has a bass strapped around him, another on the drums, another on the electric -- all indifferent to twirling girls and devoted to their music mistresses instead. I swoon at this lack of interest and grow warm watching them pluck their ladies down below. My friend goes to the bar and comes back with a bottled spanish Coca-Cola for me and a glass of whiskey for her. The men who initially invited us in, come over with a plate of diced steak! One can just feel the strain of the communal table as everyone eyes each other, then the steak, testing themselves, timing their own hand-to-steak-to-mouth as best as they can. Self-control: swallowing greed, their own saliva, skipping Mississippi's as they countdown to their next slab. All the while, I'm amused at how everyone grows shy in the presence of a magnificent, delicious beast. We stay there until 2 in the morning, we feel so childish and happy we want to cry. Drunk off nostalgia and Coca-Cola. Wanting so badly, the strength of a man's arms around my frame all of a sudden. Relieved that Thursdays loop, hoping the speakeasy might appear again.

The journey back home is still a blur, all I remember is how sad I felt when the music stopped.

How I Imagine My Wedding & Honeymoon Will Be Like

There will be lotsa lotsa champagne. A champagne fountain, ice sculptures made of frozen champagne then bottled champagne to take home later. It'll be required of all my guests to be schwasted throughout the whole ceremony, expected of them to clank their glasses and encourage intense make out sessions between me and my prince, to the point my parents blush and turn away while scolding my little brothers for staring. A female friend will D.J. I will be so juiced up that I'll slur my vows, but prince will know exactly what I mean anyway. "I'll do you. I mean, I do." Oops! He'll save me from further embarrassment by putting his lips to mine to shut me up then whisper in my ear, "I'd do you too." My earring will dangle.

I will wear a long, beige chiffon dress with a large, floppy hat. Heels to match. My boobies will be augmented with boob tape for the occasion. At the reception, I will change into a black slip that hint my nipples and put on a pinbox hat. Garder on my thigh. Barefoot. No one will be a wallflower that night, every body will dance for me, with me. Barefoot.

Most of our savings will have gone toward the honeymoon though. Prince would have obviously pitched in a bit more like a real gent. A trip around to only the most exotic places in the world, with big leaves, wildcats and a clear body of water, where we'll make brutal but sanctioned love with lotsa lotsa licks, biting and beating -- unapologetic -- under stars. I'll have sand everywhere. His hand will travel, station a little below my waist, and give way to meaningful squeezes from time to time. I'll swig a bottle of white wine and toast to "us," "the universe" and "how it works." He'll find my mess and fondness for great things kind of adorable, tousle my hair and pull me in closer, poke at my hickeys with his rung finger then peck them with his teeth. He will lean in and say "babe, you smell good," and I'll answer "perfume." He will be my husband and I will still be new.

That's how I imagine my wedding & honeymoon will be like but who knows!

xXx

Ex-Boyfriends Need To Be Shipped To Pluto

So the other day my friend and I are getting all decked and dolled for this really underground, really experimental, really hip party. I'm downplaying my excitement with a cropped t-shirt and black pants like I'm way too cool to try any harder. My hair is held to the side in a high and messy ponytail and I'm putting on lipstick while my iPhone's blasting Keke Palmer, when a text from our mutual friend comes through. Uh oh. Apparently, my friend's crazy-stalker-emotionally-unstable-compulsive-lying-weird-internet-persona-type-ex has invited himself to the said event according to Facebook. He might be there.

My friend and I exchange devastated looks. I roll my eyes and hers follow. I say, "this isn't even fair, he's not my crazy ex-boyfriend. Plus, he wasn't even hot to be worth any of this." She says nothing. I realize it's not her fault that he turned out to be evil and start to feel bad. "We can't live like this." But tissue to lipstick, hair back down, and pants off. I stick a toothbrush in my mouth and get ready for bed. By this time, it's nearly midnight. Too early to sleep but too late to reconsider. Ex-boyfriends need to be shipped to Pluto. Ugh.

bio

Hello, my name is Liz Una Kim. 

I was born in Montreal, Canada, but grew up in the suburbs of Korea and (mostly) Southern California. Spent my adolescent years in bad outfits and cars, reading Nancy Drew. Wish I could say I used to dream about fashion magazines under satin bed sheets with a flashlight at night, but I didn’t — I slept like a baby. My extracurricular time was split between my pet hamster and banging my head on the piano to indulge my parents’ fantasies of me being brilliant.

I studied Media, Culture, and Communication at New York University, where I wrote pretty unoriginal essays on Barthes, Sontag, and Vogue editorials and mastered nightlife. Meanwhile, I pursued my interests in magazine publishing at Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. Now BuzzFeed pays for the cocktails (where I do Marketing things)! 

I have a delicate spot for R&B, rock'n'roll, documentaries, urban culture, German Shepherds, film photography, cured meats, memoirs, and fashion. My most preferred styles of writing are creative nonfiction and sloppy text messages.

The purpose of this blog is personal documentation, but if it happens to inspire others... AWESOME!!! I do take on freelance work and consulting on a project-to-project basis, feel free to contact me. Thanks for reading! Xx

contact

LizUnaKim [at] gmail [dot] com

Social sometimes.
Booty calls always appreciated.

press

"Liz is the best."

— Mrs. Kim

"... and the worst."
— Ujin Kim

"Girrrl got mad personality and rhythm!"
— random dude at party