Today, I woke up, and I checked my email, facebook, and twitter.
Then, I smoked a cigarette. I made an onion bagel with some cheese and ate that and drank some coffee. I brushed my teeth.
Then, I watched two episodes of Weeds. I love that show. When my MegaVideo time ran out, I got up and went to Rite Aid. I bought some toothpaste, deodorant, paper towels, and a folder to put my resume in when I go on interviews. It is green, because green is my favorite color.
Then I came back, I applied for some jobs, and I watched tv. I ate some soup for lunch. It tasted good and Sarah said it smelled good.
I smoked another cigarette and it was nice.
I complained about how it's hot in my apartment and we tried to make our air conditioner work more efficiently. Now, I am writing this blog post and chatting with Zac. I plan to finish a resume and take it to the city later. I might also do the dishes. I will take a shower.
Oh, it's very hot outside today.
There you go, zero emotion. Much easier to read. Hardly any big words. Hope you enjoyed!
xxM
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Boredom is Palpable
Maybe I have a much more boring life than I originally thought... or maybe originally hoped.
I have yet to find a job. I feel like I should be getting paid to go on interviews, as it seems that I have at least one every day. Of course, I guess, in a way, I am getting paid just to breathe, as I am reaping the benefits of government generosity. I digress. Over and over again, I hear back:
"We thank you for coming in, but we've decided to go a different route. Good luck in your job search."
I actually had a guy call me today, instead of send the conventional e-mail.
Andrew, why did you call? Did you want to hear my voice drop? My stomach twist and turn and my heart fall to the floor, once again, as I wonder (and usually aloud) what, exactly, I'm going to do? Andrew, do you enjoy being a part of my pain? I imagine you probably do. You seemed like such a nice guy this morning... And I'm going to be honest, Andrew, I'd rather hear that I suck and I'm not going to get the job, instead of hearing you tell me that you will call me back to schedule a second interview, then call me back telling me I'm not what you're looking for. Man up, Andrew. Grow some balls, then let's talk project management.
Ah, the frustration has set in, I suppose. I apologize, Andrew. I'm sure you're a nice dude. Excuse me while I over-react.
I think... no, I fear... mostly, that the problem is simple: I'm just bored. The words "bored", "bore", "boring" or "boredom" are all terribly unappealing to me. The thought of being a boring person-- having nothing interesting or useful to contribute to conversation, relationships, someone else's life-- it's honestly a pretty appalling trait to me. The thought that I'm bored in one of the greatest cities in the world really sends me into spins... there's no way this is New York's fault.
Boring people are bored. I remember hearing that phrase relentlessly when I was growing up. Of course, I grew up in small-town Mississippi, where children really do become bored out of their minds during summer break. So much so, that they resort to disastrous children's games, such as racing to see who can kill the most fire ants using only a magnifying glass and the heat of the sun in the middle of July. Ant annihilation does not equal boredom. The point is, we inevitably found ways to entertain ourselves, usually at the expense of the babysitter, and we persevered... isn't there a lesson to be learned here?
I've strayed from my initial subject, which, if you can't tell by this point, I tend to do often... and that can be applied to every aspect of my life, by the way.
I want a job terribly, and I'm not really sure what I'm doing wrong that is preventing me from becoming employed, considering I was offered two jobs within two weeks of moving here one year ago... but I'm scared that my frustration, desperation, boredom is all shining through in my interviews... where's that strong-willed, positive and motivated person I speak of in my cover letter? I might resort to begging tomorrow... at least by the second one.
If I don't get out of this rut soon, I'm destined for disaster.
I apologize to my readers who expect an epic post each time I write. Unfortunately, my life has taken an arid turn, and I can barely scrounge enough emotion out to write a boring post about boredom.
Hang in there, I'll be back soon.
xxM
I have yet to find a job. I feel like I should be getting paid to go on interviews, as it seems that I have at least one every day. Of course, I guess, in a way, I am getting paid just to breathe, as I am reaping the benefits of government generosity. I digress. Over and over again, I hear back:
"We thank you for coming in, but we've decided to go a different route. Good luck in your job search."
I actually had a guy call me today, instead of send the conventional e-mail.
Andrew, why did you call? Did you want to hear my voice drop? My stomach twist and turn and my heart fall to the floor, once again, as I wonder (and usually aloud) what, exactly, I'm going to do? Andrew, do you enjoy being a part of my pain? I imagine you probably do. You seemed like such a nice guy this morning... And I'm going to be honest, Andrew, I'd rather hear that I suck and I'm not going to get the job, instead of hearing you tell me that you will call me back to schedule a second interview, then call me back telling me I'm not what you're looking for. Man up, Andrew. Grow some balls, then let's talk project management.
Ah, the frustration has set in, I suppose. I apologize, Andrew. I'm sure you're a nice dude. Excuse me while I over-react.
I think... no, I fear... mostly, that the problem is simple: I'm just bored. The words "bored", "bore", "boring" or "boredom" are all terribly unappealing to me. The thought of being a boring person-- having nothing interesting or useful to contribute to conversation, relationships, someone else's life-- it's honestly a pretty appalling trait to me. The thought that I'm bored in one of the greatest cities in the world really sends me into spins... there's no way this is New York's fault.
Boring people are bored. I remember hearing that phrase relentlessly when I was growing up. Of course, I grew up in small-town Mississippi, where children really do become bored out of their minds during summer break. So much so, that they resort to disastrous children's games, such as racing to see who can kill the most fire ants using only a magnifying glass and the heat of the sun in the middle of July. Ant annihilation does not equal boredom. The point is, we inevitably found ways to entertain ourselves, usually at the expense of the babysitter, and we persevered... isn't there a lesson to be learned here?
I've strayed from my initial subject, which, if you can't tell by this point, I tend to do often... and that can be applied to every aspect of my life, by the way.
I want a job terribly, and I'm not really sure what I'm doing wrong that is preventing me from becoming employed, considering I was offered two jobs within two weeks of moving here one year ago... but I'm scared that my frustration, desperation, boredom is all shining through in my interviews... where's that strong-willed, positive and motivated person I speak of in my cover letter? I might resort to begging tomorrow... at least by the second one.
If I don't get out of this rut soon, I'm destined for disaster.
I apologize to my readers who expect an epic post each time I write. Unfortunately, my life has taken an arid turn, and I can barely scrounge enough emotion out to write a boring post about boredom.
Hang in there, I'll be back soon.
xxM
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Lack of Adulthood
Recently, I've found myself getting terribly anxious at the most inopportune times.
Tonight, while enjoying a lovely, queso-filled dinner with Zachnomary, Meghanom, and Jenny Andersonom, I received a truly hurtful and upsetting phone call, which jilted me and removed me from my happiness, which these days can be very short-lived. The purpose of this phone call was to cut me down, break me apart, and hit me below-the-belt. It was intentional and undeserved. Congratulations, you succeeded. In set my anxiety-- my stomach started turning, twisting itself into a writhing ball. My chest tightened, and as my heart began racing, I started thinking of all the bad in my life, and the good was suddenly blocked out, not to return until tomorrow, if I'm lucky.
I was told that I need to "grow up."
So here is my response to you, person who will remain anonymous, only to protect feelings, I suppose. Although, there comes a point when you aren't sure why you're trying to protect feelings anymore, as it has become apparent that your feelings are never protected...
I am 23 years old. No, I am 23 years young. I have a college degree, I am well-read, focused and smart. I am motivated and talented in my own respects. I do not give myself away too easily (in more ways than one), I do not hold any substance dependencies that could potentially harm my future. Yes, I am a smoker. Yes, I drink, but I drink for fun, not necessity. I steer-clear of drugs and my mind is in the right place.
I am unemployed and doing the best I can in an economy and a world that is harsh and unforgiving. I am trying my best, and my best is all I can give.
I followed my dream and got the fuck out of Dodge. I moved to a mysterious and intimidating city, scared out of my mind, and I didn't give up. I won't give up. I strayed away from the "norm" of small-town America-- go to college, find a boyfriend, marry him, have kids, work a job that you hate because you're trapped. Live in a home that you hate because you're a prisoner. Live a life that you are unhappy with because it's all you know, and all you care to know.
So I am thankful that I am not a teacher, since that was not the path I was supposed to take right now. I am thankful I am not married. I am thankful I am not tied-down to anything or anyone. I am thankful that I live a life that is never boring in a city where opportunities and possibilities are endless.
I've recently learned that it doesn't matter how other people see you. It matters how you see yourself. If I can find positivity within me, and not let others dictate and judge who I am, that will radiate into security and confidence to others. I find that people are incredibly drawn to those who are comfortable with themselves.
Tonight when I was walking back to the train, feeling broken and bummed, and being guided by Bon Iver's beautiful yet daunting voice, it suddenly hit me-- everything really, truly will work itself out. So maybe this doesn't seem like much of a realization to you, but it's so easy to get down in this city. It's so easy to let this city take you in and spit you out. Sometimes it feels as though you're swimming downstream when everyone else is making their way up. Angst and hatred and despair sets in... why is it that everyone else is climbing the proverbial ladder, and you're getting left behind? This wasn't how it was supposed to be... this isn't where life was supposed to lead you.
And then, for a second, everything stops moving. The cabs cease in their place. The suits in the Financial District pause their Heinekeins, the scenesters in Williamsburg stop dancing, and the socialites in the Upper East Side halt the clack-clack-clack of their heels on marble, penthouse apartment floors. And just before you lose control, and just before you fall to pieces, by yourself, alone, on 2nd and 15th, you look to your left, and see a man playing the guitar. A "Hallelujah" cover streams past your ear buds, and you stop and listen. And when you do, he looks up, and he smiles as he sings, as he strums the guitar, and he catches your eye. He stares at you. He doesn't stop staring as he sings. He doesn't stop smiling. He doesn't skip a beat, and at that moment, you remember why you are here.
I woke up this morning, and my room mate wished me luck as she fixed her hair for her audition today. She doesn't usually expect to get the part, but she tries anyway. Over and over again, she keeps her spirit strong. Maybe it's the support she receives, no matter what. Maybe it's the positivity in her life that she holds on to tightly. Maybe it's her strong-will. Regardless, many people could learn a lesson from her, if they'd look a little further.
I left my apartment this morning, and I went to my 2nd interview, which I was called back for because I charmed them in the first round. By myself. Without help. Without guidance. And even if that job doesn't work out, then something else will, eventually. The CEO of the company told me she liked my earrings, and commented that they compliment my face well. The company I was interviewing with is a high-end jewlery showroom.
I walked to the train this morning, and a guy about my age, wearing a plaid shirt and cut-off jean shorts stopped me on the street just to tell me he thinks I'm pretty. He apologized if it sounded strange to say, and I smiled and thanked him. He gave me a friendly wink, and we both continued on our ways.
I walked through SoHo after the interview, and a man tried to sell me a "great deal" to a hair salon in the east side. He said he thought I was beautiful, and my smile captivated him. After I told him I was unemployed and could not afford a haircut right now, he said he didn't want my money, and handed me two free tickets to his comedy show next week in the Lower East Side. He told me there was a two-drink minimum, but to ask for him when I got there, and he'd take care of it. He also warned me not to come on Tuesday or Wednesday, because those are the amateur nights, and he didn't want me to waste my time.
Today, I walked into H&M to find a new pair of leggings, fingers-crossed they were on sale. I was captured on camera, and asked if I wanted to sign a waiver for an MTV reality television show, so that my face could appear on the screen. I told them it was fine and I wouldn't take legal action against them if I wasn't blurred out. The camera man and producer both laughed and told me to "take care" and "have a great evening."
As the R train arrived today, a man stopped to let me on before him. Then another man gave me his seat. A girl complimented my shoes in Union Square, and a cavasser talked to me for 15 minutes about Lollapalooza (after educating me on the children I should be saving), and he gave me his phone number and a hug before I walked away. He told me that most people are so mean to him, and that he hoped for good things in my future. His name is Sam. I like him.
Then I sat down in the park, I took out The Picture of Dorian Gray, and I happily read while listening to a Jazz band play behind me. I met up with RJ, who never fails to put a smile on my face, even if just for a moment. He gave his normal greeting, followed by, "You look very pretty today." I ran into my friend Jocelyn, who I haven't seen in weeks, at the cafe RJ chose, since the one next door was a bit too crowded.
We enjoyed our beers, commented on people walking by and why living in this city is so different than visiting this city. It's a bond that only we can understand, and maybe this is why people hate New Yorkers. You don't know New York until you truly experience the highs and lows that give New York and the people a bad name. Maybe we are hardened by experiences. Maybe we are proud of where we live, what we have done, the things we have accomplished... why is that such a terrible thing? New York is a challenge. This is why I will struggle and complain and moan and loathe and question myself innumerable times. But this is why I love this city. This is why I'm supposed to be here.
Today, life really wasn't so bad.
So in response to the statement, "you need to grow up." I have this to say, and I will say it one time. I might be unemployed. I might be without a seemingly healthy relationship. I might be poor and struggling. I might make ill-fated decisions and spend too much time bothering with situations that will take me nowhere. People who mean nothing. Ideas and thoughts and dreams that will never come true.
But I have done more growing in the past year than you can possibly fathom, and maybe if you'd look a little deeper than material things and realize that money is not my definition of happiness even if it is yours, you would realize how grown I actually am, and how much growing I will continue to do. I thank you for all you've done, but I will not forgive you for what you've said.
Excuse me, I have to go enjoy my life and cherish my experiences now.
xxM
Tonight, while enjoying a lovely, queso-filled dinner with Zachnomary, Meghanom, and Jenny Andersonom, I received a truly hurtful and upsetting phone call, which jilted me and removed me from my happiness, which these days can be very short-lived. The purpose of this phone call was to cut me down, break me apart, and hit me below-the-belt. It was intentional and undeserved. Congratulations, you succeeded. In set my anxiety-- my stomach started turning, twisting itself into a writhing ball. My chest tightened, and as my heart began racing, I started thinking of all the bad in my life, and the good was suddenly blocked out, not to return until tomorrow, if I'm lucky.
I was told that I need to "grow up."
So here is my response to you, person who will remain anonymous, only to protect feelings, I suppose. Although, there comes a point when you aren't sure why you're trying to protect feelings anymore, as it has become apparent that your feelings are never protected...
I am 23 years old. No, I am 23 years young. I have a college degree, I am well-read, focused and smart. I am motivated and talented in my own respects. I do not give myself away too easily (in more ways than one), I do not hold any substance dependencies that could potentially harm my future. Yes, I am a smoker. Yes, I drink, but I drink for fun, not necessity. I steer-clear of drugs and my mind is in the right place.
I am unemployed and doing the best I can in an economy and a world that is harsh and unforgiving. I am trying my best, and my best is all I can give.
I followed my dream and got the fuck out of Dodge. I moved to a mysterious and intimidating city, scared out of my mind, and I didn't give up. I won't give up. I strayed away from the "norm" of small-town America-- go to college, find a boyfriend, marry him, have kids, work a job that you hate because you're trapped. Live in a home that you hate because you're a prisoner. Live a life that you are unhappy with because it's all you know, and all you care to know.
So I am thankful that I am not a teacher, since that was not the path I was supposed to take right now. I am thankful I am not married. I am thankful I am not tied-down to anything or anyone. I am thankful that I live a life that is never boring in a city where opportunities and possibilities are endless.
I've recently learned that it doesn't matter how other people see you. It matters how you see yourself. If I can find positivity within me, and not let others dictate and judge who I am, that will radiate into security and confidence to others. I find that people are incredibly drawn to those who are comfortable with themselves.
Tonight when I was walking back to the train, feeling broken and bummed, and being guided by Bon Iver's beautiful yet daunting voice, it suddenly hit me-- everything really, truly will work itself out. So maybe this doesn't seem like much of a realization to you, but it's so easy to get down in this city. It's so easy to let this city take you in and spit you out. Sometimes it feels as though you're swimming downstream when everyone else is making their way up. Angst and hatred and despair sets in... why is it that everyone else is climbing the proverbial ladder, and you're getting left behind? This wasn't how it was supposed to be... this isn't where life was supposed to lead you.
And then, for a second, everything stops moving. The cabs cease in their place. The suits in the Financial District pause their Heinekeins, the scenesters in Williamsburg stop dancing, and the socialites in the Upper East Side halt the clack-clack-clack of their heels on marble, penthouse apartment floors. And just before you lose control, and just before you fall to pieces, by yourself, alone, on 2nd and 15th, you look to your left, and see a man playing the guitar. A "Hallelujah" cover streams past your ear buds, and you stop and listen. And when you do, he looks up, and he smiles as he sings, as he strums the guitar, and he catches your eye. He stares at you. He doesn't stop staring as he sings. He doesn't stop smiling. He doesn't skip a beat, and at that moment, you remember why you are here.
I woke up this morning, and my room mate wished me luck as she fixed her hair for her audition today. She doesn't usually expect to get the part, but she tries anyway. Over and over again, she keeps her spirit strong. Maybe it's the support she receives, no matter what. Maybe it's the positivity in her life that she holds on to tightly. Maybe it's her strong-will. Regardless, many people could learn a lesson from her, if they'd look a little further.
I left my apartment this morning, and I went to my 2nd interview, which I was called back for because I charmed them in the first round. By myself. Without help. Without guidance. And even if that job doesn't work out, then something else will, eventually. The CEO of the company told me she liked my earrings, and commented that they compliment my face well. The company I was interviewing with is a high-end jewlery showroom.
I walked to the train this morning, and a guy about my age, wearing a plaid shirt and cut-off jean shorts stopped me on the street just to tell me he thinks I'm pretty. He apologized if it sounded strange to say, and I smiled and thanked him. He gave me a friendly wink, and we both continued on our ways.
I walked through SoHo after the interview, and a man tried to sell me a "great deal" to a hair salon in the east side. He said he thought I was beautiful, and my smile captivated him. After I told him I was unemployed and could not afford a haircut right now, he said he didn't want my money, and handed me two free tickets to his comedy show next week in the Lower East Side. He told me there was a two-drink minimum, but to ask for him when I got there, and he'd take care of it. He also warned me not to come on Tuesday or Wednesday, because those are the amateur nights, and he didn't want me to waste my time.
Today, I walked into H&M to find a new pair of leggings, fingers-crossed they were on sale. I was captured on camera, and asked if I wanted to sign a waiver for an MTV reality television show, so that my face could appear on the screen. I told them it was fine and I wouldn't take legal action against them if I wasn't blurred out. The camera man and producer both laughed and told me to "take care" and "have a great evening."
As the R train arrived today, a man stopped to let me on before him. Then another man gave me his seat. A girl complimented my shoes in Union Square, and a cavasser talked to me for 15 minutes about Lollapalooza (after educating me on the children I should be saving), and he gave me his phone number and a hug before I walked away. He told me that most people are so mean to him, and that he hoped for good things in my future. His name is Sam. I like him.
Then I sat down in the park, I took out The Picture of Dorian Gray, and I happily read while listening to a Jazz band play behind me. I met up with RJ, who never fails to put a smile on my face, even if just for a moment. He gave his normal greeting, followed by, "You look very pretty today." I ran into my friend Jocelyn, who I haven't seen in weeks, at the cafe RJ chose, since the one next door was a bit too crowded.
We enjoyed our beers, commented on people walking by and why living in this city is so different than visiting this city. It's a bond that only we can understand, and maybe this is why people hate New Yorkers. You don't know New York until you truly experience the highs and lows that give New York and the people a bad name. Maybe we are hardened by experiences. Maybe we are proud of where we live, what we have done, the things we have accomplished... why is that such a terrible thing? New York is a challenge. This is why I will struggle and complain and moan and loathe and question myself innumerable times. But this is why I love this city. This is why I'm supposed to be here.
Today, life really wasn't so bad.
So in response to the statement, "you need to grow up." I have this to say, and I will say it one time. I might be unemployed. I might be without a seemingly healthy relationship. I might be poor and struggling. I might make ill-fated decisions and spend too much time bothering with situations that will take me nowhere. People who mean nothing. Ideas and thoughts and dreams that will never come true.
But I have done more growing in the past year than you can possibly fathom, and maybe if you'd look a little deeper than material things and realize that money is not my definition of happiness even if it is yours, you would realize how grown I actually am, and how much growing I will continue to do. I thank you for all you've done, but I will not forgive you for what you've said.
Excuse me, I have to go enjoy my life and cherish my experiences now.
xxM
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Unrequited, yes?
It's funny how we think we're finished with people when we're not. It seems this happens repeatedly, with every ending relationship, with every ending serial-dater, every boy at the bar, every boy in the office... with every person we meet who makes us smile, who makes our nerves a wreck and our hearts beat furiously... it starts to become a humorous trend.
It's funny how we promise ourselves this chapter has been closed, but then it is re-written about 40 pages later. It might be in a different tone, but it's by the same author, nonetheless.
Often times, we meet someone, they somehow manage to sweep us away within a matter of minutes, and we can't escape the thoughts of them, no matter how long the conversation lasted, no matter how much they felt the connection with us (or didn't), no matter us much we hurt them or they hurt us...
I think my thoughts right now can best be understood in a letter. I will name this letter, An Ode to BSD.
Dear BSD,
What the hell is wrong with you?
No, no. I understand you got a little hurt. I hit your ego a little hard, and since you're a dude, it felt like the biggest blow to your manhood that you could've ever received, and I'm sorry. Really, I am. But seriously, BSD, what is going through your little peanut head right now?
I understand what you're saying. There's a lot of drama going on in your life, you're spread really thin right now (is it possible for you to be any thinner? Let's be honest...), you don't want me to be mad at you. And I'm not mad, BSD. But I think I officially realize how much I don't need your attention, since your attention is the most inconsistent thing I've had to deal with since... well you know. Okay, you don't, but I do... just grasp that he was and still is the most inconsistent human I've ever had to deal with. You are slowly stealing the title. Maybe I should have medals made? You could stand on a pedestal and both wave to your adoring fans who would rather listen to you play guitar and swoon than listen to what you're saying or care about your actions.
Is that what you're looking for, Mr. Musician? Because that is just not my style. Every other boy walking down Bedford can play the guitar... plus I'd prefer a drummer anyway. Yes, I know you can play any instrument put in front of you, and yes, I recognize you're humble about it and I find that... well, extremely tantalizing. However, your band sucks. And I don't like musicians anyway.
Let's get one thing straight, BSD. I don't have time for the flakiness. Alright, I do have time for the flakiness, being unemployed and everything. But I will not make time for the flakiness. It is beginning to interfere with my drinking-buddy hour(s) with Reej every day, and this is becoming a problem. Could you get out of my mind please?
BSD, would you mind not stringing me along this week? Because I'm going to put my foot down and say, I've had enough... I think.
You do have your perks. You're funny. I like that about you. You told me that story about living in South Bronx, and it makes me laugh, repeatedly. You make fun of your mother's Jersey accent... but it's rude to make fun of your mother, BSD. I'm throwing a penalty flag on that one. She raised you, dammit. Also, the simple fact that you're from Jersey is funny enough. It makes me smirk when you refer to your homeland as the "Asshole of America", as opposed to the popular, "Armpit of America."
It's also pretty cute when you make fun of my accent. When you add harsher tones to my vowel sounds than I actually make... when you say "y'all" and ask me if I named all of our family chickens.
I like it when you say you're old, even though you're not.
You should know, you've got nothin' on ole JT. He is, actually, getting old. So I guess you get a one-up on him in that area, but, he is your competition right now, and I should recommend that you step up your game, because you're falling way behind after last weekend.
It's really nice how you made a point to introduce yourself to all of my friends. How you shook their hands and looked them in the eye when you exchanged names. You asked them questions when you had a chance, and seemed genuinely interested in them. Let me tell you something, BSD, these are not people who are easily impressed.
You impressed them.
I don't like how, for some reason, I can't shake you from my thoughts. I don't like how you haunt me, and even if you don't mean to linger, you do. I don't like how when I saw you, and you saw me, I avoided you. I literally ran away from having a conversation with you, in fear that you would, once again, entice me with free drinks, then let me leave and let me down through your lack of actions and words. Do you ever intend to follow through?
I don't like how you didn't chase me down... I don't like how unrealistic I am when it comes to you.
What are you so scared of, BSD?
Don't do this, BSD. Please do not be another guy who is unhealthy for me, who doesn't care about me, who doesn't even really like me. Please don't be mean to me, because I don't think I can handle that again. Please take me out, and hold my hand, and make me laugh. But call me later, let me know you're thinking about me. Let me be as important to you as you could potentially be to me. I can't stand not-knowing with you, just like you can't stand it when I leave. And don't say it doesn't matter, because I know it does. I can tell when I look at you, every time I walk away.
I've never been able to read someones eyes the way I can read yours.
You could have had me, BSD, had you really wanted me. But now, I'm not so sure you were being honest, and all I'm asking for is truth. Truth in every aspect of my life, and right now, specifically you.
So I'm telling you the truth now-- figure out what you want, let me know, or leave me be. Do not tell me three days later what your intentions were... say it then or don't say it at all. Stop trying to work it out, because at this point, you're not helping the situation, you're just hurting it.
Here's the truth from me: I can't stop thinking about you, even when I'm with someone else. Even when you aren't responsive, even when I think I hate you.
Also, I really like musicians. That was a blatant lie.
So, go ahead and shoot me a text when you're done recording today... hopefully we can hang out tonight.
Best,
Meggie
End, an Ode to BSD.
Also, I'd like to end on today on a Buddha thought, via tinybuddha on Twitter...
"If you light a lamp for somebody else it will also brighten your path."
xxM
It's funny how we promise ourselves this chapter has been closed, but then it is re-written about 40 pages later. It might be in a different tone, but it's by the same author, nonetheless.
Often times, we meet someone, they somehow manage to sweep us away within a matter of minutes, and we can't escape the thoughts of them, no matter how long the conversation lasted, no matter how much they felt the connection with us (or didn't), no matter us much we hurt them or they hurt us...
I think my thoughts right now can best be understood in a letter. I will name this letter, An Ode to BSD.
Dear BSD,
What the hell is wrong with you?
No, no. I understand you got a little hurt. I hit your ego a little hard, and since you're a dude, it felt like the biggest blow to your manhood that you could've ever received, and I'm sorry. Really, I am. But seriously, BSD, what is going through your little peanut head right now?
I understand what you're saying. There's a lot of drama going on in your life, you're spread really thin right now (is it possible for you to be any thinner? Let's be honest...), you don't want me to be mad at you. And I'm not mad, BSD. But I think I officially realize how much I don't need your attention, since your attention is the most inconsistent thing I've had to deal with since... well you know. Okay, you don't, but I do... just grasp that he was and still is the most inconsistent human I've ever had to deal with. You are slowly stealing the title. Maybe I should have medals made? You could stand on a pedestal and both wave to your adoring fans who would rather listen to you play guitar and swoon than listen to what you're saying or care about your actions.
Is that what you're looking for, Mr. Musician? Because that is just not my style. Every other boy walking down Bedford can play the guitar... plus I'd prefer a drummer anyway. Yes, I know you can play any instrument put in front of you, and yes, I recognize you're humble about it and I find that... well, extremely tantalizing. However, your band sucks. And I don't like musicians anyway.
Let's get one thing straight, BSD. I don't have time for the flakiness. Alright, I do have time for the flakiness, being unemployed and everything. But I will not make time for the flakiness. It is beginning to interfere with my drinking-buddy hour(s) with Reej every day, and this is becoming a problem. Could you get out of my mind please?
BSD, would you mind not stringing me along this week? Because I'm going to put my foot down and say, I've had enough... I think.
You do have your perks. You're funny. I like that about you. You told me that story about living in South Bronx, and it makes me laugh, repeatedly. You make fun of your mother's Jersey accent... but it's rude to make fun of your mother, BSD. I'm throwing a penalty flag on that one. She raised you, dammit. Also, the simple fact that you're from Jersey is funny enough. It makes me smirk when you refer to your homeland as the "Asshole of America", as opposed to the popular, "Armpit of America."
It's also pretty cute when you make fun of my accent. When you add harsher tones to my vowel sounds than I actually make... when you say "y'all" and ask me if I named all of our family chickens.
I like it when you say you're old, even though you're not.
You should know, you've got nothin' on ole JT. He is, actually, getting old. So I guess you get a one-up on him in that area, but, he is your competition right now, and I should recommend that you step up your game, because you're falling way behind after last weekend.
It's really nice how you made a point to introduce yourself to all of my friends. How you shook their hands and looked them in the eye when you exchanged names. You asked them questions when you had a chance, and seemed genuinely interested in them. Let me tell you something, BSD, these are not people who are easily impressed.
You impressed them.
I don't like how, for some reason, I can't shake you from my thoughts. I don't like how you haunt me, and even if you don't mean to linger, you do. I don't like how when I saw you, and you saw me, I avoided you. I literally ran away from having a conversation with you, in fear that you would, once again, entice me with free drinks, then let me leave and let me down through your lack of actions and words. Do you ever intend to follow through?
I don't like how you didn't chase me down... I don't like how unrealistic I am when it comes to you.
What are you so scared of, BSD?
Don't do this, BSD. Please do not be another guy who is unhealthy for me, who doesn't care about me, who doesn't even really like me. Please don't be mean to me, because I don't think I can handle that again. Please take me out, and hold my hand, and make me laugh. But call me later, let me know you're thinking about me. Let me be as important to you as you could potentially be to me. I can't stand not-knowing with you, just like you can't stand it when I leave. And don't say it doesn't matter, because I know it does. I can tell when I look at you, every time I walk away.
I've never been able to read someones eyes the way I can read yours.
You could have had me, BSD, had you really wanted me. But now, I'm not so sure you were being honest, and all I'm asking for is truth. Truth in every aspect of my life, and right now, specifically you.
So I'm telling you the truth now-- figure out what you want, let me know, or leave me be. Do not tell me three days later what your intentions were... say it then or don't say it at all. Stop trying to work it out, because at this point, you're not helping the situation, you're just hurting it.
Here's the truth from me: I can't stop thinking about you, even when I'm with someone else. Even when you aren't responsive, even when I think I hate you.
Also, I really like musicians. That was a blatant lie.
So, go ahead and shoot me a text when you're done recording today... hopefully we can hang out tonight.
Best,
Meggie
End, an Ode to BSD.
Also, I'd like to end on today on a Buddha thought, via tinybuddha on Twitter...
"If you light a lamp for somebody else it will also brighten your path."
xxM
Friday, July 31, 2009
Comments
It was brought to my attention a few times that my previous post is a bit sensual.
That isn't the impression I was trying to give, although now I know I can successfully continue my path towards erotica fiction, my ultimate dream!
I suppose I was trying, in a way, to show my emotions for someone who I find to be extraordinary, but who is also completely and totally unattainable, as are most of the men who I find to be swoon-worthy in this city. Every man who has unknowingly won me over is at least 31 and engaged.
But they are also always successful (this doesn't mean wealthy), motivated, driven people. They are intelligent and well-spoken. They make me laugh. They knew what they wanted out of life and they went after it. They are also involved in engagements, which one, a certain Mr. Killa, as he will be called, is obviously not too committed. What business is that of mine, anyway? As long as you're just flirting, then running out in a frenzy and never looking my direction again, you're in the safe, Mr. Killa. But thanks for leading me on, asking me to drinks twice and playing some mean games of footsie and eye-sex. It was fun while it lasted.
I guess what I was primarily trying to get across in the previous post is the placebo of human touch. How everyone needs someone to rub their back, let them release without judgment and offer them false motivation with their hands or voice in order to make them feel better. This doesn't mean that his words are lies. It means his medicine is not real. He uses his touch, his hands, to help others. Human touch is extremely powerful, and most of us don't even understand the effect it can have on the mind.
This all sounds a bit bizarre, and maybe it is, but I just wanted to get a few things across. I am not having an affair with my chiropractor. I am not picturing him undressing me as he cracks my back in three different places, and I am certainly not acting on any comment or touch that is discreetly (or indiscreetly) made. And that is that.
So now, let me rant for a minute about the kind of men that are attainable for me. The kind of men who have shown an interest and failed miserably to sweep me off my feet. Two, to be specific, recently.
First, let's discuss BSD. This is how he will be known, for a specific reason which some of you will understand, some of you won't. But for the sake of his privacy and feelings, which I do care about, he will be left anonymous.
BSD strolled into my life one rainy New York evening. I was out with biffles Brittany and Jenny. We attended a birthday party for a girl we don't know at a sports bar near Union Square. The bar had a dress code, we had a fifth of rum which we were shooting in the bathroom. Classy gals, we are. Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do in this city to survive, it's just the way it works.
I digress.
Once back in home sweet Brooklyn, me and Brittany said our adieu's and part ways, as she needed to get back to the Southside, and I needed to bypass Polish judgement in Greenpoint before it got too late. I decided to wait on the bus this particular evening, as it was raining and I had, at this point, swiveled down one-too-many shots of cheap, knock off Captain Morgan. And you thought college were the glory days...
Again, I digress.
As I reached into my gigantic bag, a staple of life here, I grabbed my Marlboro Lights and fished around for my lighter. I'm willing to bet it was green but let's not place bets here. I hear someone to my left, "You waiting for the bus?" I look over, smile and nod.
"Yes, obviously I am waiting for the bus, here at the bus stop, sir." Let's be honest, I didn't say this, but I thought it with a vengeance.
I'm not going to drag this out in detail any longer than I must. We had a nice conversation for about 30 minutes (the bus was really late that night, surprise surprise), shared a couple of cigarettes and jokes. We exchanged numbers, and he offered to walk me home in the rain quite a few times. He seemed nice enough, he was pretty funny albeit obviously nervous, and I gave him props for approaching someone he was attracted to, by himself, not in a bar.
The bus finally arrived, and as I stepped up to swipe my metrocard, he asked if he could kiss me.
Of course, I said no, gave him a hug, and said he could call me if he wanted.
He didn't call.
So, I called him. And he came to the bar I frequent, and I had a couple of friends with me as back-up. One gave me the thumbs up, the other gave me a partial thumb but, to be quite honest, her opinion matters to me less than the 2 foot rat which I'm watching scampering around my backyard. Needless to say, her track record is less than flawless.
I'm going to speed things up and bit and just say, he tried to kiss me that night, I said no. Understandable, as I was sandwiched between him and at least 100 other bar-goers who happen to enjoy karaoke Wednesdays at Matchless just as much as myself.
He also tried to kiss me the third time we hung out, sans bar and sans friends (who all met him at this pointand all loved him) and again I said no. This time, I don't know why, and it ended up being the demise of me and BSD.
The funny thing is, I did like him. And I still think about him, a month later. Post his month-long European tour with his band, post his repeatedly texting me that he was going to call, and not following through, post my wishy-washy "he's a shrimp with no goals other than guitar... but he makes me laugh" mentatlity, which I believe is what kept me from the kiss.
It's funny how we constantly complain about what we don't have. We loathe in our turmoil and become bitter, stating that it's their fault it didn't work out. "He didn't call me when he said he would." was my ultimate reason for being "so over him." But that doesn't explain why I still hope to run into him every time I go out. It doesn't explain why every time my phone beeps, alarming me of an incoming text, I get my hopes up that maybe it'll be him, wanting to buy me dinner, or just wanting to hang out. I let my insecurites with myself get in the way of letting him like me, and for the second time in my life (and hopefully the last), I sincerely regret it.
I guess it's true, when you can have him, you don't want him, and when he's gone, it consumes you...you need him for the first time, and he doesn't need you.
I'm saving boy #2, who will be known as JT, for another posting... obviously, this has gone on long enough, and I must keep you on your toes.
xxM
That isn't the impression I was trying to give, although now I know I can successfully continue my path towards erotica fiction, my ultimate dream!
I suppose I was trying, in a way, to show my emotions for someone who I find to be extraordinary, but who is also completely and totally unattainable, as are most of the men who I find to be swoon-worthy in this city. Every man who has unknowingly won me over is at least 31 and engaged.
But they are also always successful (this doesn't mean wealthy), motivated, driven people. They are intelligent and well-spoken. They make me laugh. They knew what they wanted out of life and they went after it. They are also involved in engagements, which one, a certain Mr. Killa, as he will be called, is obviously not too committed. What business is that of mine, anyway? As long as you're just flirting, then running out in a frenzy and never looking my direction again, you're in the safe, Mr. Killa. But thanks for leading me on, asking me to drinks twice and playing some mean games of footsie and eye-sex. It was fun while it lasted.
I guess what I was primarily trying to get across in the previous post is the placebo of human touch. How everyone needs someone to rub their back, let them release without judgment and offer them false motivation with their hands or voice in order to make them feel better. This doesn't mean that his words are lies. It means his medicine is not real. He uses his touch, his hands, to help others. Human touch is extremely powerful, and most of us don't even understand the effect it can have on the mind.
This all sounds a bit bizarre, and maybe it is, but I just wanted to get a few things across. I am not having an affair with my chiropractor. I am not picturing him undressing me as he cracks my back in three different places, and I am certainly not acting on any comment or touch that is discreetly (or indiscreetly) made. And that is that.
So now, let me rant for a minute about the kind of men that are attainable for me. The kind of men who have shown an interest and failed miserably to sweep me off my feet. Two, to be specific, recently.
First, let's discuss BSD. This is how he will be known, for a specific reason which some of you will understand, some of you won't. But for the sake of his privacy and feelings, which I do care about, he will be left anonymous.
BSD strolled into my life one rainy New York evening. I was out with biffles Brittany and Jenny. We attended a birthday party for a girl we don't know at a sports bar near Union Square. The bar had a dress code, we had a fifth of rum which we were shooting in the bathroom. Classy gals, we are. Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do in this city to survive, it's just the way it works.
I digress.
Once back in home sweet Brooklyn, me and Brittany said our adieu's and part ways, as she needed to get back to the Southside, and I needed to bypass Polish judgement in Greenpoint before it got too late. I decided to wait on the bus this particular evening, as it was raining and I had, at this point, swiveled down one-too-many shots of cheap, knock off Captain Morgan. And you thought college were the glory days...
Again, I digress.
As I reached into my gigantic bag, a staple of life here, I grabbed my Marlboro Lights and fished around for my lighter. I'm willing to bet it was green but let's not place bets here. I hear someone to my left, "You waiting for the bus?" I look over, smile and nod.
"Yes, obviously I am waiting for the bus, here at the bus stop, sir." Let's be honest, I didn't say this, but I thought it with a vengeance.
I'm not going to drag this out in detail any longer than I must. We had a nice conversation for about 30 minutes (the bus was really late that night, surprise surprise), shared a couple of cigarettes and jokes. We exchanged numbers, and he offered to walk me home in the rain quite a few times. He seemed nice enough, he was pretty funny albeit obviously nervous, and I gave him props for approaching someone he was attracted to, by himself, not in a bar.
The bus finally arrived, and as I stepped up to swipe my metrocard, he asked if he could kiss me.
Of course, I said no, gave him a hug, and said he could call me if he wanted.
He didn't call.
So, I called him. And he came to the bar I frequent, and I had a couple of friends with me as back-up. One gave me the thumbs up, the other gave me a partial thumb but, to be quite honest, her opinion matters to me less than the 2 foot rat which I'm watching scampering around my backyard. Needless to say, her track record is less than flawless.
I'm going to speed things up and bit and just say, he tried to kiss me that night, I said no. Understandable, as I was sandwiched between him and at least 100 other bar-goers who happen to enjoy karaoke Wednesdays at Matchless just as much as myself.
He also tried to kiss me the third time we hung out, sans bar and sans friends (who all met him at this pointand all loved him) and again I said no. This time, I don't know why, and it ended up being the demise of me and BSD.
The funny thing is, I did like him. And I still think about him, a month later. Post his month-long European tour with his band, post his repeatedly texting me that he was going to call, and not following through, post my wishy-washy "he's a shrimp with no goals other than guitar... but he makes me laugh" mentatlity, which I believe is what kept me from the kiss.
It's funny how we constantly complain about what we don't have. We loathe in our turmoil and become bitter, stating that it's their fault it didn't work out. "He didn't call me when he said he would." was my ultimate reason for being "so over him." But that doesn't explain why I still hope to run into him every time I go out. It doesn't explain why every time my phone beeps, alarming me of an incoming text, I get my hopes up that maybe it'll be him, wanting to buy me dinner, or just wanting to hang out. I let my insecurites with myself get in the way of letting him like me, and for the second time in my life (and hopefully the last), I sincerely regret it.
I guess it's true, when you can have him, you don't want him, and when he's gone, it consumes you...you need him for the first time, and he doesn't need you.
I'm saving boy #2, who will be known as JT, for another posting... obviously, this has gone on long enough, and I must keep you on your toes.
xxM
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Shave.
I returned today with a mission. I was going to successfully shake his hand and walk away without being swayed to come back.
I failed.
He walked in sporting his comfortable smile and friendly gestures, as per usual. He seemed relaxed and at ease. He asked me where I'd been, as I have been putting off this appointment for a few weeks, knowing that I have about as much internal strength as a chicken when he's around. The way he speaks is gruelingly tempting. It isn't only his words that soothe my mind, but the actual way he asserts his voice -- his inflection and tone, the patience and kindness in his expression. It's like this incredible gift he doesn't even realize he possess.
As he stood in front of me, I mumbled under my breath that I would not be returning after this session. His smile turned to a look of annoyance, although I knew he wasn't upset, just concerned. He grabbed my hand and instructed me to get on the table.
"We'll figure it out. We can figure it out, don't worry."
The same response I've been given relentlessly for the past three months. So I give in. I succumb to the powers that are Dr. Hottie, and I take a deep breath, and let it out, as I am instructed.
I feel him place his hands on my back, and as he runs them up and down my spine, around the back of my body, over my neck, my frustrations ease away from me. For those minutes, everything in my little universe is alright.
He leans his legs against my side as he speaks to me, calms me. He stops to make a joke about my shirt being slippery. I laughed a little, and although I was listening to every word he said, all I could think about was how desperately I needed someone like him in my life. How desperately everyone needs someone like him in their lives.
My stress began to trickle away, and for a mere ten minutes, my thoughts were on him, his hands, his voice, his character. As he held my head in his hands, and brushed his thumbs over my cheeks repeatedly, I started to realize how unhealthy this healthy treatment really might be for me.
And then I stopped caring.
Tell me again how I look nice with a suntan. Tell me how you think I'm wise beyond my years, how I'm one of the most down-to-earth people you've ever met. Tell me how you think I'm funny, and how you'll kick the other doctor's ass if he hurts me again when you're on vacation. Tell me about your little dog and how it loves people, but not other dogs. Tell me how the people from my former job seem very lifeless compared to me, and how I didn't belong there anyway. Tell me how I'm going to be so successful, because you can "just feel it." Tell me about how you don't like your in-laws, and how this wedding is just getting to be really expensive. Show me again how trapped you feel in your engagement. In your ideal life.
I opened my eyes and looked up at him, and he looked down at me with a smile. He cracked a joke about how I should just think about retirement at my age. Then with a sudden jerk, my neck cracked left, then right, and it was over.
He holds my hands as he pulls me up as he always does. He lets his voice linger as he reassures me that something can be worked out.
We said our goodbyes, and I ventured towards the exit to reality-- the concrete jungle of lights and sirens that we New Yorkers call Midtown. He disappeared to the back, bounding towards his next victim.
I left the office feeling renewed and rejuvenated, as I always do. The rush he provides might not be because of his chiropractic expertise, but if something makes you feel good, why make it stop?
xxM
I failed.
He walked in sporting his comfortable smile and friendly gestures, as per usual. He seemed relaxed and at ease. He asked me where I'd been, as I have been putting off this appointment for a few weeks, knowing that I have about as much internal strength as a chicken when he's around. The way he speaks is gruelingly tempting. It isn't only his words that soothe my mind, but the actual way he asserts his voice -- his inflection and tone, the patience and kindness in his expression. It's like this incredible gift he doesn't even realize he possess.
As he stood in front of me, I mumbled under my breath that I would not be returning after this session. His smile turned to a look of annoyance, although I knew he wasn't upset, just concerned. He grabbed my hand and instructed me to get on the table.
"We'll figure it out. We can figure it out, don't worry."
The same response I've been given relentlessly for the past three months. So I give in. I succumb to the powers that are Dr. Hottie, and I take a deep breath, and let it out, as I am instructed.
I feel him place his hands on my back, and as he runs them up and down my spine, around the back of my body, over my neck, my frustrations ease away from me. For those minutes, everything in my little universe is alright.
He leans his legs against my side as he speaks to me, calms me. He stops to make a joke about my shirt being slippery. I laughed a little, and although I was listening to every word he said, all I could think about was how desperately I needed someone like him in my life. How desperately everyone needs someone like him in their lives.
My stress began to trickle away, and for a mere ten minutes, my thoughts were on him, his hands, his voice, his character. As he held my head in his hands, and brushed his thumbs over my cheeks repeatedly, I started to realize how unhealthy this healthy treatment really might be for me.
And then I stopped caring.
Tell me again how I look nice with a suntan. Tell me how you think I'm wise beyond my years, how I'm one of the most down-to-earth people you've ever met. Tell me how you think I'm funny, and how you'll kick the other doctor's ass if he hurts me again when you're on vacation. Tell me about your little dog and how it loves people, but not other dogs. Tell me how the people from my former job seem very lifeless compared to me, and how I didn't belong there anyway. Tell me how I'm going to be so successful, because you can "just feel it." Tell me about how you don't like your in-laws, and how this wedding is just getting to be really expensive. Show me again how trapped you feel in your engagement. In your ideal life.
I opened my eyes and looked up at him, and he looked down at me with a smile. He cracked a joke about how I should just think about retirement at my age. Then with a sudden jerk, my neck cracked left, then right, and it was over.
He holds my hands as he pulls me up as he always does. He lets his voice linger as he reassures me that something can be worked out.
We said our goodbyes, and I ventured towards the exit to reality-- the concrete jungle of lights and sirens that we New Yorkers call Midtown. He disappeared to the back, bounding towards his next victim.
I left the office feeling renewed and rejuvenated, as I always do. The rush he provides might not be because of his chiropractic expertise, but if something makes you feel good, why make it stop?
xxM
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Heat is Temporarily Infinite
Summer in the city.
Supposedly, this is the best thing about living in New York. Street fairs, free events and cute little dogs without their sweaters. Hidden swimming pools are discovered and, all of the sudden, we are shocked by the realization: "Hey, there are numerous beaches surrounding the burroughs." Let's get a tan!
Hipster boys sport their undeniably trendy bermuda shorts and Jersey girls show their indisputably teeny minis. We rediscover our love for Pink Berry, Mr. Softee, or the organic ice cream truck on Bedford, which never fails to have a line of over-heated scenesters anticipating their single-scoop and blocking my Northbound path to Greenpoint. We laugh and we hold hands and we sit in the park and we exclaim over and over, "I LOVE SUMMER IN THE CITY."
But it's fucking hot.
For some reason, New York landlords refuse to believe that we do not live in a. 1912 and b. Sicily. I would compare the heat to the American South. But I'm from the American South, and down there, we all have central A/C. We also all own a cow, drink water from the community well, and I didn't even own my first pair of shoes until I hitchhiked my way to the big city! I'll save those stories (lies) for my future posts.
In New York, it is not uncommon to walk into a clothing store, already over-heated and soaked from your brisk 1/2 mile stroll in the 90 degree heat, only to find that this particular store is not only over-priced and under-whelming, but employees and customers alike are passing out left and right from exhaustion and heat strokes. Their faces are literally becoming burned from the reflection of the sun rays off the windows. Is it morally acceptable to make employees work on their feet for 8 hours a day, without even the meagerest, window-installed 5,000 wat unit?
I'm exaggerating. Guilty.
But it's fucking hot.
You look at your iChat, and notice that boy (who just didn't work out). His status is, "it's fucking hot in here. this sux." HA! Hate it for you, boy-who-just-didn't-work-out. Because I'm feeling rather content right now, lying on my bed, window open, cigarette in hand. The buses are loud, but comforting. The roar of the G train below me is almost dulcet, and I've gotten used to the lady who rummages through the recycling. She needs to eat too, you know. The breeze is slow but consistent, and the rain makes everything delightfully bearable. Even lovely.
Sorry boy-who-just-didn't-work-out, because although I'm hot, I'm not miserable. Like you.
I think on Sunday I'd like to go to the Brooklyn Pool Party and listen to Dan Deacon and Deerhunter play-- for free. Maybe I'll even grab a 1.00 penny-lick ice cream cone. I'll invite my friends, and we'll kiss each others cheeks and hold hands and drink cold, over-priced beer. We'll tease the cute hipster boys and label them "delicious" or "unclean". We'll scour the hoards of trendy girls and secretly wish we were wearing that dress. We'll judge the judgmental. We'll judge each other. We'll sweat and and acquire a new tan-line. Our noses will become pink in the sun. We'll dance.
At the end of the day, we'll sit down with a brown-bagged tall boy in the park. We'll complain about sunburns and landlords and various wrong-doings. We'll make headbands out of clover flowers. I'll smoke a cigarette, and lay down on the grass, and watch the kickball game which will undoubtedly be played 20 feet from my head.
And then I'll talk about how much I love summer in the city.
xxM
Supposedly, this is the best thing about living in New York. Street fairs, free events and cute little dogs without their sweaters. Hidden swimming pools are discovered and, all of the sudden, we are shocked by the realization: "Hey, there are numerous beaches surrounding the burroughs." Let's get a tan!
Hipster boys sport their undeniably trendy bermuda shorts and Jersey girls show their indisputably teeny minis. We rediscover our love for Pink Berry, Mr. Softee, or the organic ice cream truck on Bedford, which never fails to have a line of over-heated scenesters anticipating their single-scoop and blocking my Northbound path to Greenpoint. We laugh and we hold hands and we sit in the park and we exclaim over and over, "I LOVE SUMMER IN THE CITY."
But it's fucking hot.
For some reason, New York landlords refuse to believe that we do not live in a. 1912 and b. Sicily. I would compare the heat to the American South. But I'm from the American South, and down there, we all have central A/C. We also all own a cow, drink water from the community well, and I didn't even own my first pair of shoes until I hitchhiked my way to the big city! I'll save those stories (lies) for my future posts.
In New York, it is not uncommon to walk into a clothing store, already over-heated and soaked from your brisk 1/2 mile stroll in the 90 degree heat, only to find that this particular store is not only over-priced and under-whelming, but employees and customers alike are passing out left and right from exhaustion and heat strokes. Their faces are literally becoming burned from the reflection of the sun rays off the windows. Is it morally acceptable to make employees work on their feet for 8 hours a day, without even the meagerest, window-installed 5,000 wat unit?
I'm exaggerating. Guilty.
But it's fucking hot.
You look at your iChat, and notice that boy (who just didn't work out). His status is, "it's fucking hot in here. this sux." HA! Hate it for you, boy-who-just-didn't-work-out. Because I'm feeling rather content right now, lying on my bed, window open, cigarette in hand. The buses are loud, but comforting. The roar of the G train below me is almost dulcet, and I've gotten used to the lady who rummages through the recycling. She needs to eat too, you know. The breeze is slow but consistent, and the rain makes everything delightfully bearable. Even lovely.
Sorry boy-who-just-didn't-work-out, because although I'm hot, I'm not miserable. Like you.
I think on Sunday I'd like to go to the Brooklyn Pool Party and listen to Dan Deacon and Deerhunter play-- for free. Maybe I'll even grab a 1.00 penny-lick ice cream cone. I'll invite my friends, and we'll kiss each others cheeks and hold hands and drink cold, over-priced beer. We'll tease the cute hipster boys and label them "delicious" or "unclean". We'll scour the hoards of trendy girls and secretly wish we were wearing that dress. We'll judge the judgmental. We'll judge each other. We'll sweat and and acquire a new tan-line. Our noses will become pink in the sun. We'll dance.
At the end of the day, we'll sit down with a brown-bagged tall boy in the park. We'll complain about sunburns and landlords and various wrong-doings. We'll make headbands out of clover flowers. I'll smoke a cigarette, and lay down on the grass, and watch the kickball game which will undoubtedly be played 20 feet from my head.
And then I'll talk about how much I love summer in the city.
xxM
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