- Joined
- Feb 3, 2013
Lena Dunham - Fat, Child Molesting Attention Whore and Her Trainwreck of a Family
- Thread starter CatParty
- Start date
- Joined
- May 15, 2018
- Joined
- Feb 25, 2013
That just looks like a scene from a crap French comedy.
It's like watching a more terrible 60s European movie.
- Joined
- Feb 27, 2019
It's like someone jammed a tire inflator in a Raggedy Ann doll.
- Joined
- Feb 3, 2013
Apparently her Sandman review was a positive one. She also had a movie screening while the site was down.
- Joined
- Apr 6, 2022
God knows why this article was suggested to me, but apparently Lena Dunham built a 1 1/2 bedroom home in her parents' backyard.
In an essay for the December issue of Architectural Digest, the Girls creator writes about her family ties to her Connecticut home — mainly, how it's right in her parents' backyard.
"When I was a little kid, I used to dread the idea of ever leaving my parents' home. I hated leaving for the day to go to school, much less the idea of going to college or getting married," she writes in a feature that showcases the maximalist space.
Dunham recounts her New York City upbringing, moving from apartment to apartment. But her parents didn't find the "perfect place" for them until they moved into their Connecticut home. A former boarding school, the compound of a brick home and stucco barn have "become the most lasting landmark of our family, an ode to our eccentricities and to our bonds."
Dunham, who says she lives between Connecticut and London, called the renovation process her family's "most maddening real estate project yet."
With the help of their friend, architect David Bers, contractor Rick McCue and her parents, they dreamt up Dunham's home, which consists of one and a half bedrooms and one full bathroom.
Dunham recalls her father saying of the finished project, "It looks like a kindergartner drew a house. And I mean that as a compliment."
"When I was a little kid, I used to dread the idea of ever leaving my parents' home. I hated leaving for the day to go to school, much less the idea of going to college or getting married," she writes in a feature that showcases the maximalist space.
Dunham recounts her New York City upbringing, moving from apartment to apartment. But her parents didn't find the "perfect place" for them until they moved into their Connecticut home. A former boarding school, the compound of a brick home and stucco barn have "become the most lasting landmark of our family, an ode to our eccentricities and to our bonds."
Dunham, who says she lives between Connecticut and London, called the renovation process her family's "most maddening real estate project yet."
With the help of their friend, architect David Bers, contractor Rick McCue and her parents, they dreamt up Dunham's home, which consists of one and a half bedrooms and one full bathroom.
Dunham recalls her father saying of the finished project, "It looks like a kindergartner drew a house. And I mean that as a compliment."
- Joined
- Jul 5, 2014
How does one have a *half* bedroom?
Petronella
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Jul 15, 2013
So this dumb bitch thinks she invented the mother in law suite?
- Joined
- May 25, 2013
Don't forget, Lena also outed Grace against her will to her parents, and when called out for it she straight up said she views her sister as an extension of herself.
I suspect there are even more skeletons in the closet of her abusive relationship with her sister than we know about. She's like a female Josh Duggar.
- Joined
- Aug 10, 2019
the other half is where the lawnmower is stored.
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2013
Lena Dunham, Sex-Cult Victim!
The lovely Ms. Dunham was the executive producer for Orgasm, Inc. (2022), a recently-released Netflix documentary about One Taste, a San Francisco-based sex cult that was attracting the attention of people like Gwyneth Paltrow a few years' back. According to Crazy Days and Nights, she bankrolled the doc because she'd been traumatized by their "fifteen-minute orgasm" clitoral-massage technique, and wanted revenge.
The lovely Ms. Dunham was the executive producer for Orgasm, Inc. (2022), a recently-released Netflix documentary about One Taste, a San Francisco-based sex cult that was attracting the attention of people like Gwyneth Paltrow a few years' back. According to Crazy Days and Nights, she bankrolled the doc because she'd been traumatized by their "fifteen-minute orgasm" clitoral-massage technique, and wanted revenge.
- Joined
- Dec 19, 2020
I'm willing to bet that the ones who performed the "fifteen-minute orgasm" clitoral-massage technique got traumatized by Lena
- Joined
- Apr 30, 2021
She probably did it while sexually abusing her sister.
- Joined
- Apr 15, 2021
Nah, someone from the sex cult probably reflexively pulled a disgusted "Ew, gross" face when Lena started dirty talking about putting rocks in her sister's vagina. Disapproval at her grotesque behavior? Boom: instant "trauma."
I can easily imagine cults banning an enormous solipsist like Lena from joining. Even Scientology would be like "Ma'am. Ma'am! Please leave the Celebrity Center. This soul-crushing, predatory, oppressive, money-and-fame hungry cult is not for you. There's only room for one David Miscavige here."
The implicit suggestion that she can undermine another's agency because, like her body, they're a part of her own property is such classic abuser shit. Lena's so gross on every level.
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2013
Contrary to popular belief, cults usually reject people with obvious mental illness, or even pronounced neuroses. They present a bad public image to the outside world, and are far too much of a drain on the time and resources of a money-/power-oriented sect. OT honchessa Nicole Daedone was absolutely brilliant at reading and manipulating people, and she may have eventually decided that Lena D was far too fucked up to be worth mining for cash or connections.
king_gosso
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 10, 2021
Someone must love her at AD to approve this meandering, self centered diatribe.
Lena has the writing style of a self-published chick lit author who's just finished her sixth writer's workshop retreat and has let everyone know shes a "writer".
Step inside the color blind 1.5 bedroom carriage house.
When I was a little kid, I used to dread the idea of ever leaving my parents’ home. I hated leaving for the day to go to school, much less the idea of going to college or getting married. I loved them, and I loved the culture of our family—the free-flowing dialogue about emotion and art and history and gossip and fashion. I couldn’t imagine a better set of pals. But I still wanted my own place.
So I created a number of houses within theirs, starting with pillow forts and graduating to loft beds, with a stop in the middle at a cardboard box with a window cut out in it. I just needed a spot where I could exert my maximalist aesthetic against their minimalist one. (Me: leopard contact paper, hot pink tempera paint, feathers. Them: plywood, gray bouclé, modern photography.) It seemed like the perfect compromise between dependence and solitude.
We lived, until I was 13, in the same loft on lower Broadway that my mother had moved into when she was 22. In my memory it’s cavernous and grand, but in reality it was just one midsize room with tin ceilings and a single cramped bathroom tiled in lemon and chartreuse. Once we finally left, it felt as though my parents couldn’t stop moving. To Brooklyn (where my mother paid to keep her 212 phone number) and then back to Manhattan, then back to Brooklyn (two different apartments; she gave up the 212), then back to Manhattan again. I criticized my mother because she never emoted about any move, just did as Jay-Z and said, “On to the next one.” I wanted her to weep thinking of the homes we left, but she was maddeningly focused on the future.
I vowed that when I was finally out of the house I would find a place and stay put. None of this prospecting for real estate gold, none of this looking for the next best thing. They had been, like many artists, driven by the idea of finding the perfect place, some symbiosis of affordability, neighborhood culture, and inspiration all in one (hopefully prewar) package. But it didn’t come in New York City.
It came when my mother passed by a vacant building in northwest Connecticut. Once a boarding school in a bucolic country village, the brick house and stucco barn had long stood empty on a slim plot of land. To anyone else, it would have looked like an endless headache without much garden, but to my parents it was endless possibility. Through a series of too-good-to-be-true coincidences, it came into our family’s possession, and this compound has become the most lasting landmark of our family, an ode to our eccentricities and to our bonds, which are packed as tight as we were in that loft on lower Broadway.
I grew up and I did, in fact, move out, but I didn’t keep my promise to myself to find a solid base. I moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, back to Manhattan, back to Brooklyn, to another place in Brooklyn, to another place in Brooklyn, then back to Manhattan to an apartment I loved, and then into another that I never saw when the pandemic kept me on a whole different continent for nearly a year. I didn’t understand, back then, that we don’t just move because we’re looking for something better. We move because life happens, in ways both heartbreaking and mundane. Sometimes it’s noisy neighbors, sometimes it’s crippling heartbreak, and sometimes it’s because the rent is too damned high.
Still, I wanted permanence, a sense that I lived in a monument—if not to the family I hadn’t yet made, then to the one that had made me. And so, my family undertook their most maddening real estate project yet: building my house in their Connecticut backyard.
It was a veritable Suicide Squad of characters: our friend and longtime architect David Bers, a subtle genius with swagger to spare; Rick McCue, the contractor of few words but many skills who had brought all our other Connecticut dreams to fruition; my father, himself an aesthete with his own way of doing things, working with David and Rick to project-manage; my mother, using her passion for color, texture, and—as she calls them—objets. And me, pulling up the rear, a.k.a. sending helpful texts like “CAN WE PAINT THE HOUSE PINK AND ADD CIRCULAR WINDOWS SO IT LOOKS LIKE I LIVE IN A STRAWBERRY!?” (The answer was a firm no.)
David consulted with my father and Rick on the exact slice of land where my unimposing house—one and a half bedrooms, one full bath—would go. He then drew up plans for the place he called the Carriage House, a structure that would fit in with the white clapboard around us but subtly project some modernity. “It looks like a kindergartner drew a house,” my father said about the rectangle with a peaked roof. “And I mean that as a compliment.”
While the outside may have had to adhere to family rules, the inside—like the cardboard box that came before it—was all mine. David both pushed me and reined me in. He brought a density of color and texture: parrots and turquoise-backed flowers in the primary bedroom; wood-grain wallpaper in the office nook; a built-in cozy domain upholstered with Jessica McClintock–esque ’80s roses with a sliding pink door to close it off, nicknamed The Slot. But he also created a deceptively simple and ergonomic design that made me feel, in some new way, adult. He also considered the challenges of my chronically ill body. The low staircase is perfect for the days my arthritic hips give me trouble, with a custom carved banister that is rounded like the corners of a marshmallow, and the bathtub has a pull-up bar in case I get dizzy.
And because all of these people know me, they know my love languages are both productivity and coziness. Therefore, the office is outfitted with a cushy chair and footrest. The headboard is upholstered all the way to the ceiling in pink wool, with a white metal work light on either side for reading scripts into the wee hours. The basement watercolor studio, whose cement floor is painted the pale strawberry I demanded for the façade and was denied, contains my most treasured possession: a custom painting table in raw wood and white enamel, designed by my father and constructed by Gregory Curry.
I was gone when they broke ground, getting occasional updates—like the time my father sent me a text of shirtless construction workers placing shingles in the blazing sun with the words “hot guys on your roof.” Thanks, Pop.
I thought I’d get home sometime during the process, but like so many people, the pandemic kept me away for longer than I ever imagined. As an immunocompromised person, travel seemed mostly impossible for me. My parents are youthful, but not young. For a family that usually spends our whole lives together, we experienced something very new: We were separated for nearly two years. And so the house went from idea to construction site to reality. When it was finished, my mother waited patiently for my storage to arrive, counting 112 boxes.
When I finally returned—just in time for our first post-pandemic Christmas as a family—I was not only married, but she had unpacked every last item, placing them in the loose but curated style she has always shown for my whole life. My mismatched ceramic mugs hung from hooks, near a beaded mint green cake plate she had sourced, along with her treasured collection of jadeite china. She had fluffed pillows, put jewelry on little trays, and even fanned out all six of my copies of the book that became my most recent film, Catherine Called Birdy.
I walked through the house in awe, understanding that while my stoic mother hadn’t been overtaken with emotion when we’d packed a moving truck, she had shown me her deepest feelings by setting up this house, running her lean, silver-manicured fingers along every object I’d hauled through my 35 years, showing me just how well she knew me. At a moment of such widespread uncertainty, she had sought solace in making life more comfortable for me—something she had always done, but which was highlighted by the fact that we had been separated for the first time in our lives. I felt a shocking amount of gratitude—taking in the full blast of my good fortune—to have these parents and this home, to have a home at all.
When people ask where I live now, I say “between London and Connecticut.” Unless they press further, I don’t blurt out “10 feet behind my parents,” but when I do admit to this fact, they usually ask some version of “Literally?”
Yes, literally. Just as I always wanted.
So I created a number of houses within theirs, starting with pillow forts and graduating to loft beds, with a stop in the middle at a cardboard box with a window cut out in it. I just needed a spot where I could exert my maximalist aesthetic against their minimalist one. (Me: leopard contact paper, hot pink tempera paint, feathers. Them: plywood, gray bouclé, modern photography.) It seemed like the perfect compromise between dependence and solitude.
We lived, until I was 13, in the same loft on lower Broadway that my mother had moved into when she was 22. In my memory it’s cavernous and grand, but in reality it was just one midsize room with tin ceilings and a single cramped bathroom tiled in lemon and chartreuse. Once we finally left, it felt as though my parents couldn’t stop moving. To Brooklyn (where my mother paid to keep her 212 phone number) and then back to Manhattan, then back to Brooklyn (two different apartments; she gave up the 212), then back to Manhattan again. I criticized my mother because she never emoted about any move, just did as Jay-Z and said, “On to the next one.” I wanted her to weep thinking of the homes we left, but she was maddeningly focused on the future.
I vowed that when I was finally out of the house I would find a place and stay put. None of this prospecting for real estate gold, none of this looking for the next best thing. They had been, like many artists, driven by the idea of finding the perfect place, some symbiosis of affordability, neighborhood culture, and inspiration all in one (hopefully prewar) package. But it didn’t come in New York City.
It came when my mother passed by a vacant building in northwest Connecticut. Once a boarding school in a bucolic country village, the brick house and stucco barn had long stood empty on a slim plot of land. To anyone else, it would have looked like an endless headache without much garden, but to my parents it was endless possibility. Through a series of too-good-to-be-true coincidences, it came into our family’s possession, and this compound has become the most lasting landmark of our family, an ode to our eccentricities and to our bonds, which are packed as tight as we were in that loft on lower Broadway.
I grew up and I did, in fact, move out, but I didn’t keep my promise to myself to find a solid base. I moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn, back to Manhattan, back to Brooklyn, to another place in Brooklyn, to another place in Brooklyn, then back to Manhattan to an apartment I loved, and then into another that I never saw when the pandemic kept me on a whole different continent for nearly a year. I didn’t understand, back then, that we don’t just move because we’re looking for something better. We move because life happens, in ways both heartbreaking and mundane. Sometimes it’s noisy neighbors, sometimes it’s crippling heartbreak, and sometimes it’s because the rent is too damned high.
Still, I wanted permanence, a sense that I lived in a monument—if not to the family I hadn’t yet made, then to the one that had made me. And so, my family undertook their most maddening real estate project yet: building my house in their Connecticut backyard.
It was a veritable Suicide Squad of characters: our friend and longtime architect David Bers, a subtle genius with swagger to spare; Rick McCue, the contractor of few words but many skills who had brought all our other Connecticut dreams to fruition; my father, himself an aesthete with his own way of doing things, working with David and Rick to project-manage; my mother, using her passion for color, texture, and—as she calls them—objets. And me, pulling up the rear, a.k.a. sending helpful texts like “CAN WE PAINT THE HOUSE PINK AND ADD CIRCULAR WINDOWS SO IT LOOKS LIKE I LIVE IN A STRAWBERRY!?” (The answer was a firm no.)
David consulted with my father and Rick on the exact slice of land where my unimposing house—one and a half bedrooms, one full bath—would go. He then drew up plans for the place he called the Carriage House, a structure that would fit in with the white clapboard around us but subtly project some modernity. “It looks like a kindergartner drew a house,” my father said about the rectangle with a peaked roof. “And I mean that as a compliment.”
While the outside may have had to adhere to family rules, the inside—like the cardboard box that came before it—was all mine. David both pushed me and reined me in. He brought a density of color and texture: parrots and turquoise-backed flowers in the primary bedroom; wood-grain wallpaper in the office nook; a built-in cozy domain upholstered with Jessica McClintock–esque ’80s roses with a sliding pink door to close it off, nicknamed The Slot. But he also created a deceptively simple and ergonomic design that made me feel, in some new way, adult. He also considered the challenges of my chronically ill body. The low staircase is perfect for the days my arthritic hips give me trouble, with a custom carved banister that is rounded like the corners of a marshmallow, and the bathtub has a pull-up bar in case I get dizzy.
And because all of these people know me, they know my love languages are both productivity and coziness. Therefore, the office is outfitted with a cushy chair and footrest. The headboard is upholstered all the way to the ceiling in pink wool, with a white metal work light on either side for reading scripts into the wee hours. The basement watercolor studio, whose cement floor is painted the pale strawberry I demanded for the façade and was denied, contains my most treasured possession: a custom painting table in raw wood and white enamel, designed by my father and constructed by Gregory Curry.
I was gone when they broke ground, getting occasional updates—like the time my father sent me a text of shirtless construction workers placing shingles in the blazing sun with the words “hot guys on your roof.” Thanks, Pop.
I thought I’d get home sometime during the process, but like so many people, the pandemic kept me away for longer than I ever imagined. As an immunocompromised person, travel seemed mostly impossible for me. My parents are youthful, but not young. For a family that usually spends our whole lives together, we experienced something very new: We were separated for nearly two years. And so the house went from idea to construction site to reality. When it was finished, my mother waited patiently for my storage to arrive, counting 112 boxes.
When I finally returned—just in time for our first post-pandemic Christmas as a family—I was not only married, but she had unpacked every last item, placing them in the loose but curated style she has always shown for my whole life. My mismatched ceramic mugs hung from hooks, near a beaded mint green cake plate she had sourced, along with her treasured collection of jadeite china. She had fluffed pillows, put jewelry on little trays, and even fanned out all six of my copies of the book that became my most recent film, Catherine Called Birdy.
I walked through the house in awe, understanding that while my stoic mother hadn’t been overtaken with emotion when we’d packed a moving truck, she had shown me her deepest feelings by setting up this house, running her lean, silver-manicured fingers along every object I’d hauled through my 35 years, showing me just how well she knew me. At a moment of such widespread uncertainty, she had sought solace in making life more comfortable for me—something she had always done, but which was highlighted by the fact that we had been separated for the first time in our lives. I felt a shocking amount of gratitude—taking in the full blast of my good fortune—to have these parents and this home, to have a home at all.
When people ask where I live now, I say “between London and Connecticut.” Unless they press further, I don’t blurt out “10 feet behind my parents,” but when I do admit to this fact, they usually ask some version of “Literally?”
Yes, literally. Just as I always wanted.
- Joined
- Apr 4, 2020
Ain't she divorced yet? What's wrong with her husband? I was betting that this marriage wouldn't last more than a year.
- Joined
- Sep 20, 2016
She never once mentions her husband in that article, what he thinks of the house, or what input he might have had into its design or decor. And when you look at the pics, it's abundantly clear that no man lives there.
I think that's answer enough.
- Joined
- Feb 16, 2021
Saw this on Daily Mail during a Farms downtime and literally laughed out loud. She looks like Tweedledee and Tweedledum’s long lost sister Tweedledont. 
