It’s Moving Day, finally.

Join me in a moment of silent chewing for the final Pink Palace post.

And it’s just a photo. Which is fitting. (Refer to site’s title.)

[Sniff.]

MY DVR/LIFE PARTNER DID NOT TAPE TOP MODEL.
I fear we may have to break up.

Fittingly (who says that?), I took this glamour-shot self-portrait of me looking forlorn in the NYU library, attempting to work on my thesis. Looking good, Annie! It was probably right around 8 pm. Maybe I was subconsciously sensing my life partner’s severely depressing malfunction. We’re pretty close like that.

I’m so much sadder now than I was in the library. And look how sad I was there! There wasn’t even water in that bottle, and all my snacks were gone. Don’t you just want to feed me iceberg lettuce and discounted Reese’s eggs?

For some reason, “sadder” is striking me as possibly not a word. But that’s crazy talk. I’m going to leave it. Of course it’s a word. My perception of what a word is is effed-up right now anyway. If I have to read over-inflated academic words like “metastable” and “disequilibrium ” all night, I’m sure as hell going to say “sadder.” Also “funner.”

So instead of the Top Model Ten, I’ll leave you with a prime example of those pesky Grad School Sentences Annie Pretends She Totally Gets:

“Immanentist, de-individuating, posthumanist ontologies might be said to enact their own paralyzing rhetoric of addiction: deterritorializing responsibility, they ensure the transnational consumption of compulsion.”

Exactly. I coudln’t have said it any better myself. (Because I don’t know what thirty percent of the words mean. Right. Supersmart!)

Okay, slight problem. I will really miss gazing at Mischa Barton. I’m not kidding.

Don’t get me wrong — I thought Marissa was vile. But I still appreciated her face, frame, and hair. Who wouldn’t? She’s a dream. The O.C. made it so easy for people like me to have a relatively good excuse to stare at Mischa for an hour (the show was usually all about her — agonizing, but easy on the eyes) while exerting the least possible amount of effort. (Did you guys know that? Watching TV is easy.) What are we supposed to do now? Google image search that bitch? Rent The Sixth Sense? See whatever awful movie she makes next in all her emancipated glory? Watch avideo of her pushing Nicole Richie around in a shopping cart?

Fat chance, Mischa. Yeah, that’s right: Fat. Eat a pancake.

Someone should market a Mischa Barton slideshow of sorts. Not a calendar, nothing like that. Just basic photographs of Mischa in expensive, cool clothes — a slideshow that would change maybe every few hours. (But only when it was switched on, like a desk lamp. It’s not like I’d look at it all the time. Just whenever I wanted to).

Or, if I was the richest person ever, I could hire her to just sit in front of me, or show up wherever I happen to go. Like if I’m walking down the street, she’ll be walking the other way. No big deal, just “Oh, there’s Mischa.” Yet again. Just my luck!

She’d always have to be expertly styled — that’s the catch. I’d want her to do what she always did on the show: make me feel dowdy, large, and hopelessly unfashionable. I don’t want to miss out on this now that Marissa’s dead, and I fear that I might. Who will I love/hate to idolize now?

Nope. I’m voting slideshow instead of in-house existence. Seeing her in person — seeing anyone in person, actually — would be incredibly awkward. That’s not even what I want. Excluding special cases, I typically don’t like having to deal with actual human life. I’m confident that I’d never want to talk to Mischa, or do anything with her. I just want to be able to stare at her if I feel like it. A slideshow of her, looking good in different outfits. It’s not so much to ask.

A little old lady tried to buy my necklace while she helped me out at the bridal registry counter (holla, Heffa!) at Williams-Sonoma today. I don’t get that. If I bought it for myself, why would I sell it to you? Is this, like, a common practice?

As soon as I told her I’d bought it in Brooklyn, she looked crestfallen. No, no, it’s a cool store! There are two incredibly convenient locations! I tried to explain. But she wasn’t havin’ it.

“Oh, I’ll never go to Brooklyn,” she said.

And that was that. If our conversation was taking place within Nintendo, the screen would have flashed GAME OVER at this point. This was a perfectly normal, able-bodied citizen of Manhattan, flat-out refusing to travel less than five miles to Brooklyn.

She then started trying to find sneaky ways for me to get the necklace to her via a route that did not involve her setting foot in Brooklyn. Maybe she could write down her address, and I could send it to her, and she could send me money (because she didn’t have any cash…. yeah right). Maybe I could buy her one, then bring it back to the store and she’d pay me extra. Like a tip. Like I’m the food delivery guy. And finally she asked the biggie:

“Well, why can’t I have that one, that you’re wearing?”

There were many reasons, which I didn’t really feel like going through. Not that she wouldn’t have been willing to listen. She was clearly bored by her job and had a crush on me. (Some of her pickup lines included “I just love your style!” and “You’re my kind of girl.”)

So I could have whipped out a notepad and outlined specific bullet points of why I couldn’t/didn’t want to take off my necklace and give it to her. Instead, I just stared at her and made a noise that probably resembled “Hehhhhehh.” Imagine the noise Pat, the SNL character, made when he/she was nervous. Mine was in a lower tone. I probably sounded like a trucker.

Now I sort of want to go buy it for her and drop it off next week. It’d be so unlike me. I’d feel like a great humanitarian and she’d be thrilled and tell everyone she knows about the total angel who bought her a necklace.

Seriously, who would refuse to go to Brooklyn? I’m already obsessed with it. Reason 1: The movie theaters are always empty! Check it out (left). Just one of the highlights of my new and improved Brooklyn Life: Leno and I were treated to a private screening of the new L-Lo vehicle Just My Luck.

This movie was horrible on all levels, the most significant of which was the unfortunate presence of Samaire Armstrong (Anna from The O.C.) as one of L-Lo’s nondescript best friends. I gather that she was supposed to be “the quirky one,” which mostly meant a guitar, a lot of fake fur, and hot pink highlights. I don’t understand how this girl keeps getting to act while refusing to enunciate a single word in her life. Wouldn’t someone say something? We’re dying here.

Congratulations Danielle!

We’re in the process of painting our new apartment. I’m living with a Scandanavian arctic creature named Poor Leno (right). He doubles as a human. We hosted a “painting party” last night and got one room completely done, in a life-affirming shade of green called Brookdale Gardens. Yes! Painting is extremely fun and rewarding for at least ten minutes. You should try it!

I’ll tell you what’s disgusting: primer. I coated my room with it because the infant named Jackson who lived there before had an apparent fondness for pumpkin orange, a color darker than my choice of Luster Blue. (I’d actually call it Dusty Violet, but whatever.) Let’s not linger on the fact that I’m moving into a tiny cube previously inhabited by a baby, and instead focus on primer being disgusting. From the first massive “roll” I applied to the wall, I was treated to a constant shower of tiny wet, white specks. I felt like I was in a commercial for a shampoo called “Primer.” It was sort of fun becuase I’ve always wanted a ton of cute freckles, but mostly it was disgusting. I don’t even know if it was worth the effort. Note to everyone: Say no to primer!

I love how I paint one room and I’m suddenly an expert on manual labor.

Here’s one cool thing: the color we picked for the hallway (a light sea green) is called Prairie Princess, and both of us are from Illinois, which everyone already knows is… The Prairie State! True to our roots, we are. Maybe we should make it a theme and stencil in some corn on the cob and the ever-obligatory outline of Abraham Lincoln’s head.

Since painting the rest of it looks to take 10-15 days or perhaps years, this site will be even lamer than usual (Exhibit A: this post) in the near future. Please stand by… and grab a roller and HELP us, with a backwards E.

Or leave tips on painting, specifically how to do it for extended periods of time without going insane.

Yes! I enjoy often Phish. Shoot me. I also enjoy tropical fish, courtesy of Dee Barrett’s shiny spandex aerobics pants from the ’80s. Dee, seriously… WTF? (Editor’s note: The same could be asked of Annie, who has carried these pants around with her “for special occasions” since she found them in her bathroom closet at age 17.) Editor, shut up. In any case, that pic’ll have to replace the other futon pic during National Tropical Fish Spandex Month. Or, “May.”

I’m glad The Apprentice has resorted to sexual-favors-in-the-cabs gimmicks in order to draw in viewers (left). Just kidding — silly British Sean and mini Daisy Duck Allie are only cracking up at something their project manager said, because project managers are always a barrel of laughs. I think this one was asking them what color paint they should use on the pipes on a ceiling. Ha ha ha! I’d definitely need to bury my face into the guy next to me’s lap if I heard something so outrageous.

I propose a new, and this time meaningful, task for The Apprentice: Which team can bake the bigger brownie?

Last night I watched the most amazing show in the world: The Secret Life of… Brownies on the Food Network (right). I can’t even focus on that photo for longer than a second without losing my breath. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I could live without the possibly styrofoam Michigan State-related atrocity in the middle, but oh my god, look at the lush landscape of plain brown to its right. I just want to shrink down, do a cool track-start dive, and go swimming in there for a while. I don’t think anything could make me more happy.

So it’s settled. Before I die, this is what I want to do. If you love me, make it happen.

Kate forwarded this to me around Easter… I just remembered it becuase I’m still working on a Fannie May Solid Milk Chocolate Rabbit from a few weeks ago. (Ew!) It’s all part of the Great Apartment Eat-Out, my self-imposed plan to eat only the food in my studio before moving to the Slope in two weeks. I was going to document The Eat-Out daily on DR, before I realized it was really boring and trivial “in the scheme of things” — like everything else I seem to care about only worse!.

The word “Solid” on the box is so key. Dee only sends solid chocolate animals, as we share a deep-rooted resentment for hollow ones like those pictured. Who do they think they’re kidding? Nearly everyone! What a buzzkill.

We will not stand for this. It’s solid or bust! Dee enjoys the bonus chocolate. I like the “ski slope” skid marks I get to leave on the rolling plains of solidity with my teeth. Also: the bonus chocolate.

Those “crumbs” in the graphic look suggestive of feces. I’d still eat ‘em.

This is brutal.

My DVR/life partner never, ever tapes the Survivor season finales. It’s probably because they’re always on Sunday nights instead of the regular Thursdays. (WHY?) But shouldn’t such an advanced piece of technology — and the gadget I consider to be my soulmate — have slightly more intuition than this? It’s happened like five times now.

I am furious. I watch the entire season of a show I know is worthless, a show I don’t even like that much but remain devoted to simply because it was the first American competitive reality show based on a somewhat interesting idea. Also, my parents watch it, so it’s fun to discuss plot points with them. Sometimes, between all of our conversations about current events, snacking, and me, I hardly know what to talk about. Thanks Survivor!

Anyway, every season I invest hours of my precious little life into these people, and don’t even get to see how it all ends. Ugh! Thing is, I’m sure the finale was lame as usual, I know I would have ended up making fun of everyone’s outfit and how they all look fat now, I know I would have wanted to throw things at the screen whenever Jeff Probst tried to act like he wasn’t reading from cue cards. But for some reason, I relish this crap. So I’m pissed.

The only reason I care enough to write about this right now (I’d gotten over it about two hours ago) is that my next-door neighbor is currently watching his or her recording of the finale. I can hear the drawn-out-too-long flute music. It’s time yet again for tribal council. And I’ll never get to see it.

I’ve never seen my neighbor(s?), and I definitely never hear their TV, so this just seems like an even crueler implementation by God (or Probst) to mess with me tonight.

Or, and this is actually more likely, this is karma biting me in the ass for being such a horrific neighbor to him/her/them for almost two years now. Whoever lives there absolutely hates me and would kill me on the spot if we ever met, which we won’t. I play music — loudly and at 3 a.m. I watch TV — loudly and at 5 a.m. I actually don’t think my various forms of entertainment are ever that loud, but since the walls are about three inches thick, I’m confident that the neighbors think they are that loud.

Quite recently, at 3 a.m. on a Friday night when I was playing music quietly and chatting animatedly wwith one other person in the apartment, we were treated to five loud pounds on the shared wall. FIVE. With spaces in between. So it wasn’t like a casual knock-knock-knock, “Hey could you turn that down” request (which, yes, they’ve done before). This was a calculated, determined, “I’ve hated you for years and if you don’t obey me right now I’m shooting my gun at the wall” plea. There was desperation in the pounding, but it was so forceful it felt like a death threat. We now refer to it as the Knock Heard ‘Round the World.

Update: they just finished their recording, and I heard the sound a TiVo makes as they probably deleted the episode. So if I had a TiVo, this wouldn’t have happened. Noooooo!

Shout-out to my new friend Alison in Park Slope. I didn’t think you were weird, if you were worried. Quite the opposite!