But what does it all mean?

Does anybody ever just feel like.. 'What the hell's the point!?' I've recently taken a vacation, which I'll get to later, and come back to work feeling somewhat... how do you say, Blase. Unconcerned. Passionless. I make table linens for chrissake. I stare at numbers. I try to make sense of 8 cents here and 15 cents there. I scrutinize twenty seven colors of green to find just the right shade for Fall 2010...

I just read a book called A Thousand Splendid Suns. If you haven't read it, borrow it from someone (this is what poor people do.) And so I finished the book, and now I'm feeling like- God we are all so ridiculously spoiled. I complain about buying toilet paper and not being able to afford Kettle One. The women in this book were beaten if they tried to walk alone. They weren't allowed to have jobs so that they could feed themselves. In the year 2000..

And suddenly, I'm happy to stare into the abyss of my computer screen. I will gaily type out 50 pointless emails a day to people who live in India and Taiwan and be thankful that I have health insurance. We could all hope that our jobs would give us such a sense of satisfaction that every day we would arrive home feeling like we've left a little dent in the world. But in reality, we should just feel lucky to be able to work for our money, have roofs over our heads, and pay for our own shit.

While it may seem at this point like I've taken a wrong turn on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, the book really is a great story and I do reccommend it.

Carry on!

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd We're Back!

Yeahhhh...

The party has moved to the LES- 5 weeks with no internet has proved sufficient time for some fucking interesting stories. Since I have little to no recollection of a majority of these stories, I will instead put forth a list of random highlights that plague my mind for months to come. In no particular order, I:

-made friends with a guy dressed in a homemade lizard costume

-payed some guys in beer to move all my shit from St. Marks to LES

-got a piggy back ride through the rocks of Central Park by my roommate- a girl.

-carried a dresser from 97th St. and Amsterdam to Orchard St.

-smoked weed from a Jamaican homeless man outside of a pizza shop

-saw some nipples at a Chinese/Mexican restaurant

-dropped my phone off of a 7 story building

-went to church wearing a fur coat, boots, and no shred of dignity

-learned how to play drums on RockBand

-had a photo shoot on the roof and simultaneously broke a camera

-licked baked beans off of someone's thigh

I think that about covers it. Maybe I've missed some pieces, but I'm sure they'll come back to me eventually. Back for another round, New York. Buck up.

Don't tell. Anyone.

I can't stop watching Dancing with the Stars. I thought maybe this season I would ignore the first episode so that I wouldn't be tempted to keep following- devoting hours of time to watching dried up 'celebs' make fools of themselves in order to prove something to someone or otherwise remind America that they still exist. And isn't it odd how the professional dancers seem to make it their life mission to boost the self-esteem of these Stars?? I dunno- kinda creepy




Unfortunately for me, my roommate has DVRed the show, so here I sit. On a Tuesday night. Wasting my life away. There is, however, this one thing:

His name is Derek. I think he may be about 19- blonde- hairless. It's a weird attraction, I know. But I could watch him Samba around my screen all day. UGHHHH- fling your hair around some more Derek. Keep contributing to my disgusting habit. Love it-

Thank goodness..

I had a dream last night that my mom came up to NY just to tell me I was getting fat... I've had a distinct urge to throw up all day. I had some cereal for breakfast and then had to throw away half an orange for lunch. At some point this afternoon while my stomach was eating itself, I thought SCREW IT! There's good news:

15 minutes of laughter a day burns 40 calories

20 minutes of talking on the phone burns 18 calories... speaking expressively in an exaggerated tone can burn up to 40 (important to know)

120 minutes of shopping burns 238 calories

45 minutes of sex at burns 158 calories


This clearly means I can cut down the stairmaster to around 15 minutes. I wonder how many calories you burn riding on the train... Thanks mom!

Glorious Warmth

SO, I didn't get to attend the event with the Irish hobos, since someone had to work.. Sad. However, I did have a fantastical weekend because...........Wait for it... It was over 60 degrees!!!!!! Clearly this calls for good times and unexplained behavior. Friday night, SSS and I decide that going out is not even necessary. Not when we have the terrace available for our sweet drunken pleasure.

Since the terrace is not a terrace so much as a large fire escape, we will need some chairs, some tunes, and a plethora of alcohol choices. We also have the worst excuse ever for a couch, so we decide that couch cushions also make EXCELLENT terrace lounges. Two ladies, two terrace lounges, some Cabernet, vodka, and kettle corn. Honestly, what else could we possibly need? Oh right- some heinously loud and obnoxious country music with which we shall serenade all of St. Marks. Yes, guy coming out of Crif Dogs, yes we are out of our damn minds.

Saturday its all warm and semi-sunny. Its so much easier to walk around in this city when you're not bundled up like the kid from A Christmas Story, bracing yourself against the wind, and tripping down subway steps in your giant snow boots. We are decked out in our Spring attire, walking all over downtown when lo, we have stumbled upon our Goonie cave. It is in the form of a CHIK-FIL-A which is located deep in an NYU dorm near Washington Square Park. It is the only Chik-Fil-A in the entire state of NY. God, how I have missed the sound of my arteries squeezing shut as I take a bite of fried buttery goodness. A fabulous walking day followed by a concert featuring my genious viola-playing friend.

Why does warm weather make everything so much better? Sunday is still warm which means more walking. Then a trip to Upper East because a friend is moving to LA and giving away all of his belongings. Clearly there are things in his apartment that I need, since I can barely afford toothpaste. After a Jameson on the rocks and some good conversation, I leave his place with the following:

contact solution
a DVD player
fabulous metal coasters
Absolut vodka playing cards
a few novels I've been meaning to read
a pregnancy test
a spray bottle
some Durex condoms and a blue feather boa

I think I made out quite well. I did also acquire a TV that I have to figure out how to move 70 blocks but for now I'm just going to sit here and hope that it moves itself.. I love this city.

I have heard there is a place called Hoboken. I think that maybe this is where all the people related to hobos live. Hmm. Well, apparently they hold an early St. Pattys Day celebration. Since I make a point to join any celebration whenever possible, I plan on going. I hear that there is a parade in the afternoon. Only no one watches it because they are all wasted by 11am.

I also enjoy the thought that maybe Hoboken doesn't have open container laws. Or maybe they just dismiss the laws this weekend to celebrate the Irish. Either way, I would like to hang out with these Irish hobos. I think that this guy's pretzles and the McDonaldLand in the background are reason enough to check it out, huh? huh?

Or, this walking glass of Guiness being harassed by small children...
We shall see my friends, we shall see.

The HEX

I have spiralled, spiralled deep into the abyss. I believe that I have offended someone very important and/or scary. Here are some highlights of my week/weekend that lead me to this conclusion:

1. I have a Canadian man friend. He has an apartment. It has a bathroom that is shiny and white. I should not be allowed in. I am putting on makeup quickly, because as a girl, one must prove that they can ready themselves for any event in mere moments. Who wants to hang out with someone who spends all day painting and straightening? So, I am proud of my four minute routine and gathering my belongings when my large, beautiful bottle of Chanel foundation slips onto the ground. UGH- thank goodness it's intact. Feeling lucky, I reach down to grab it and instead FLING this shit into the white tile wall where it bursts and spurts EVERYWHERE. I hate my life. I tiptoe into the living room. "Uh, something bad happened......"

2. Upon arriving home, I find my room quite chilly because oh- in NY a lovely, sunny 65 degree day turns into a freezing cold wintery mix in a hot minute. I decide to turn on the heater at least for a while. Oh, right. I built my "closet" just above my radiator. (A happy side effect of this stupidity is that all of my outfits are delightfully warm in the morning.) Keep in mind that my clothes aren't even close to fitting in said "closet." It is a tight freakin fit and you need to know what you're looking for. I have to slide my formal dresses over slightly just for safety reasons, so I stick my hand in and push- simultaneously catching my wrist on a wooden pant hanger and ripping a huge gash down my hand. AWESOME. I look like I just arm wrestled fucking Freddy Crougar.


3. That is all...




















4. On Friday night I finally agree to go out and meet E's man companion. His friends and a few of ours are all meeting at his apartment beforehand. My New Year's resolution being to become more punctual, I arrive first. I am bored. I am drinking. If I don't talk, no one will. I go off on a monologue about where I'm from, how great my neighborhood is, and how if I could be any black man on earth, I would be Jay Z. Yes. All the important stuff. I need to increase my alcohol intake STAT if I'm going to keep this up. Honestly, I don't really remember leaving the apartment, but apparently had a lovely cab ride with my feet through the open partition. I am at Thompson Hotel in SoHo. I drunk dial the Canadian and when asked if I am at the Thompson Hotel in Lower East Side, I agree. WTF? I don't even know where I am? After about 45 minutes of him looking for me at the wrong hotel, I realize what I've done. I think I should get a cab and go find him since this is clearly my drunken fault. Okay, I'm in a cab and I have no clue where the other Thompson Hotel is. No clue. I'm just having this guy DRIVE. By the grace of God (and the patience of the Canadian) I find the other Thompson Hotel and stumble out to meet him at which point he must carry me home. Not like Sweet Chariot carry me home. Like physically haul my ass back to Chelsea, undress me, and put me to bed while listening to me ramble on about craving bread.
WHY ARE THERE TWO HOTELS CALLED THE SAME THING???? I hate my life. Part two.