selfie Archives

North Fork Wine Country

North Fork Wine Country has a way of feeling both ordinary and a little unreal—like the day is sun-warmed at the edges, and the rest of it is quietly humming underneath.

We leaned into a weathered shingle wall, close enough to share shade and a laugh, the kind that comes easy when you’ve already decided not to rush. There’s something about wine country weekends that makes time behave differently. Minutes loosen. Conversations stretch out. Even the small moments—sitting still, shoulders touching, looking into a camera—feel like they’re holding onto you.

I like the North Fork for its softness. It isn’t trying to be a grand performance. It’s tasting rooms and back roads, the gentle clink of glasses, and that slow drift from one place to the next. Rosé tastes like summer even when summer is almost over, and the air feels like it’s been filtered through salt and fields.

Traveling together can be loud in other places—planning, lines, landmarks—but here it’s quieter. You notice textures: cedar shingles, sunlit wood, the way the afternoon settles into your clothes. You listen to one world press up against another: weekend crowds and local calm, bright smiles and the private comfort underneath them.

We came for a simple getaway. We left with that rare feeling of being more settled than when we arrived.

Lunch at Kitchen Kettle Village

Lunch at Kitchen Kettle Village has a way of slowing the day down. Out on the patio, the tables feel tucked into summer—shade from the trees, the low murmur of people passing by, and that easy kind of light that makes you forget to check the time.

We ended up lingering longer than we planned, letting the afternoon stretch. There’s something comforting about eating outside when the air is warm but not heavy, when a breeze moves through and everything feels a little less urgent. Even a simple lunch tastes better when you can hear the world around you—chairs shifting, glasses clinking, conversations floating in and out like background music.

Kitchen Kettle Village sits in that familiar Pennsylvania rhythm: busy, but gentle. It’s the kind of place that invites wandering after you eat, the kind of place where you can carry a relaxed, full feeling from one shop to the next without needing a reason.

By the time we finished, it didn’t feel like we’d just grabbed lunch. It felt more like we’d paused—just long enough to let the day settle, to be present, and to enjoy a small pocket of summer.

Clearwater Beach Boys

There’s a particular kind of brightness that belongs to a beach town—sunlight bouncing off pale sand, the sky stretched thin and patient, and buildings in the distance that look like they’ve been left out to fade on purpose.

This photo feels like that: two guys tucked into the frame, shoulders touching, hats and sunglasses doing their best to negotiate with the glare. Behind them, Clearwater Beach keeps going—flag up in the wind, a lifeguard stand posted like a small, quiet lighthouse, and the slow movement of people crossing the sand like they’re part of the tide.

Vacation pictures are usually proof: we were here, it was warm, we smiled. But the better ones carry something else, something you only notice later. A little ease. A little ordinary happiness, sun-warmed and unposed, the kind that settles into you the way salt does—subtle at first, then suddenly you realize it’s everywhere.

Maybe that’s what “Clearwater Beach Boys” really means. Not just the place, not just the day, but the feeling of being briefly unhurried. Two lives meeting the ocean at the same time, looking back at the camera as if to say: remember this, even when you’re far from the water.

And if the answer to “???” is anything, it’s this: yes. We’ll take the light when it comes.

Hanging with Harry on Friday

Friday has a way of softening the edges of the week. Everything ordinary—hallway light, scuffed floor, the quiet pause before plans—feels a little more forgiving.

Harry doesn’t care what day it is, of course. He just knows the small rituals: sit close, settle in, let the world move around us for a minute. He stretched out across my lap like he belonged there (like he always has), and I caught myself smiling at how quickly a room can feel warmer with a dog in it.

There’s something comforting about these simple, almost forgettable snapshots. A peace sign and a tired grin. A white coat against denim. The kind of moment that doesn’t announce itself as important until later, when you’re looking back and realize it was.

We didn’t do anything remarkable. We just hung out. But in the quiet way the week finally exhales, it was enough. Harry’s calm weight, the steady patience in his eyes, and that brief feeling that time slowed down just to let us be still.

If your Friday found you running hard, I hope you get a small pocket of rest. And if you’ve got a Harry nearby, give him a little extra room on your lap.

A Pilgrimage for the Almighty Monthly Metro-card

In the elevator’s mirror, the city folds in on itself.

The patterned screen between me and my own reflection turns a simple selfie into a kind of stained glass: a hooded outline, a face half-found, the light flattened into warm, tired amber. The subway has a way of doing that—taking whatever you bring down with you and translating it into something quieter, more private.

Somewhere above, the day is moving without me. Down here, it’s all small rituals. Waiting. Listening. Holding a plastic card that decides how far you can go and how long you can linger between places.

A monthly MetroCard is such a strange little promise: unlimited movement, but only within the same familiar corridors. It becomes a talisman you check and re-check, as if losing it would mean losing the map of your own routines. You tap, you ride, you climb the stairs, you find the elevator when your legs or your patience ask for mercy.

Calling it a pilgrimage feels almost honest. Not because it’s holy, but because it’s repeated. Because it asks you to keep showing up—descending into the same tiled tunnels, trusting the same rattling doors, letting the city carry you even when you’re not sure what you’re heading toward.

And in the mirrored hush between floors, you catch yourself and think: I’m still here. Still moving.

Philly weekend with Bae – Mom’s Bday

| #boyfriendswhobrunch #seafood #philly

| Truth be told, we were in Philadelphia for my mother’s birthday. My mother is a seafood fan and we decided to take her to Devon Seafood Grill for lunch and then some shopping.

Throwback Thursday Goosebumps Mummy Realness 1996

| #tbt #goosebumps #strut | ???

| Nothing is quite like that good Throwback Thursday! I have not received an official story on they happenings that lead to this photo but there is clearly some good sass and strut. This is straight from the 90’s realness!

Squad Goals Achieved Nomo Soho

| #squadgoals #cocktail #smiles @THENOMOSOHO | ???

| Squad Goals Achieved – with these lovely people @anthea.chu @rare_jrdn @takenbyangel . After a nice brunch with my parents we all headed to Nomo Soho for some cocktails. They make a great Manhattan but the Marikorico cocktail was huge, tasty, and able to be shared.

Marikorico Cocktial $16

Rooibos Tea Infused Plantation 3* Rum, Orgeat Syrup Velvet Falernum, Lime, Pineapple, Tiki Bitters

| Read Insta-comments -> http://bt.zamartz.com/2kfiPSP

| Read Insta-comments -> http://bt.zamartz.com/2kUvWW

Boyfriends be Blizzard

The snow turns ordinary errands into something cinematic. A sidewalk becomes a small stage; the wind edits the scene for you, softening the edges, erasing the sharpness of the day. In the middle of it all, two boyfriends lean together for a quick selfie—cheeks cold, jackets zipped, the kind of closeness that feels practical and tender at the same time.

“Boyfriends be Blizzard” sounds like a joke you say to keep your teeth from chattering. But there’s truth in it, too. When weather arrives with teeth, you find out what you keep and what you let go. You keep moving. You keep laughing. You keep someone close enough to share warmth, even if it’s only for the length of a photo.

The street behind them is blurred with snow and motion—parked cars collecting white, a fence beaded with slush, the day reduced to a few muted colors. A paper bag swings from one hand like proof that life continues: coffee, groceries, something simple carried home. The storm doesn’t stop the routine; it just asks you to do it slower, shoulder to shoulder.

In weather like this, the world feels smaller and quieter, as if everything beyond the falling snow is far away. And in that narrowed space, affection is louder. A kiss on the cheek, a grin caught mid-flurry, a shared pause before stepping back into the cold.

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