I've known stylist Megan Delaney for over 15 years. She's originally from Seattle and when she moved to New York City I'd call her from a landline, but back then it was just called “the phone” because cell phones were still a luxury. I’d pick her brain about the city for hours because I lived in Boston at the time when, like Logan’s Run, they kill you when you turn 30.
Now that we all have cell phones that we never talk to people on, every once in a while she'll just text me,, but I usually don't know what she's talking about because it’s usually a continuation of a conversation we had months ago—or maybe even two cell phones ago. She also has an Instagram account (@tellmeeverything) that consistently features pictures of shit I wish I was doing or making fun of with her, like the time we watched that N.O.R.E. video where he just says "what" over and over and we felt white.
Here’s some recent images sent from her iPhone with a broken flash.
What's the big deal? Everyone finds themselves in this position once in a while.
It's a truly bizarre and tragic twist to the "homefree" tale of everyone's favorite hatchet-wielding hob
A new drug called sisa is tearing its way through Athens' poor.
Crotchless panties make me hornier than a nude Jake Johnson offering me a burrito.
In the end, Luhrmann made it work, and that’s all that matters.