I've been recently derided by one Rachel for not keeping up my blog. She has become the second person to care whether this blog is regularly updated, the first one being my father. For that, I offer her my congratulations and thanks.
And, because of that, I've decided to dedicate this post to Rachel, by giving you all (Dad) a bit of a brief character sketch. Of Rachel. Because she's awesome.
In case anybody's read the backlog of this blog, she's the girl I met at orientation who miraculously happened to like (most) all the things I did. She's also the one who ventured with me out into the cold of the January city near the beginning of our first semester. In fact, I've probably talked about Rachel more than anyone else in this blog. So, I guess I'm keeping within a theme.
Rachel oozes happiness. Even when she's being crushed under the weight of unrelenting homework and her ridiculous two jobs (now, thankfully, she only has one - she had to save up enough money to study in Paris for the summer, and she figured the best way to do that was to absolutely kill herself) she always will smile the biggest smile and tell you exactly how she love love loves J.D. Salinger or Allen Ginsberg.
Physically, she's a bombshell, the (proud?) owner of the perfect hourglass figure. However, having certain Kardashian proportions often makes her the recipient of unwanted on-the-street attention, which she regards with a mix of disgust, revulsion, and repugnance. Despite her love for Woody Allen, and her forgiveness of Ernest Hemingway for having too many wives (admittedly, I, too, tend to be over forgiving of an artist's misogyny, including the misogyny of dear, tormented Ernest,) I would call her a feminist. Her body is her own and is not to be commented on by strangers or shamed by airbrushed pictures in magazines. She unabashedly enjoys underwear parties, dances to Florence and the Machine on the roof, and nearly closes her eyes when she smiles. She has perfect cheekbones and is my designated partner for 16 Handles frozen yogurt pit stops. She knows more about nearly every single author we read in class than I'll probably ever know about one. She will talk about anything and we though we both love literature and movies, we completely disagree on what's enjoyable in each category. Which is the best, because then we can argue (amicably of course,) and that's pretty much the best thing two friends could ever do.
She's one of my very favorite people I've found at NYU. I've been exceedingly lucky in finding her - who else would wander the city in the freezing cold with me? Who else would endure my illogical and negative rants about men? Who else would play subway roulette, getting off at a random stop with me and go exploring? Who else could whisper well informed half-audible commentary to me during British Literature lectures?
She's the tops. Really.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
A Dream Within A Dream
I had a dream within a dream last night. And since this doesn't seem to happen much outside of movies starring Leonardo DiCaprio, I've decided to write about it.
So, I went to bed last night and dreamed I was a witch. A witch that was also going to bed, but this time in a flying car. I said goodnight to the person who was driving and curled up in the backseat. I began to dream, again.
I was with a friend I hadn't seen for a long time and her boyfriend in a hotel room. I was stealing the tiles from the wall since I believed they had some sort of magic property to them, and tiles with magical properties are worth a good deal of money if sold in the right market. Although, I'm not sure why we decided to stay in this hotel in the first place. It was a rundown room with peeling tan paint on the wall, ceiling, and floor. It had a strip of tiles running horizontally on the wall around the room, and had no furniture other than a nasty looking futon and a closet built into the wall. My friend announced she was tired of this place and was going, leaving me alone with her boyfriend in the hotel room. Suddenly, a loud bang shook the tan ceiling and a great chunk of plaster hit me on the head and I promptly died.
The next thing I knew, I was a ghost and having sex with my friend's boyfriend in the closet. Now, I use the term "having sex" loosely, since I'm pretty sure I remember we were both fully clothed at the time, and I, being a ghost, kept floating upwards and kept having to push myself down from the ceiling using the walls. Also, he kept talking about how much he hated all bodily fluids.
"Well, if you hate them that much, we probably shouldn't be doing this," I said.
Then I woke up. I was once again a witch in a flying car, and I felt extremely guilty for being the "other woman" - even if it was in a dream (within a dream.) We landed, and as I got out, I saw my friend standing there waiting for me.
"I want you to tell me the truth," she said, her body stiff and her eyes filled with tears. "Did you dream about having sex with my boyfriend."
I paused, unable to lie to her. "Yes," I said reluctantly, "but I promise, it was only in a dream. It didn't actually happen!"
"You still shouldn't have done it," she said. "You should have known how much it would hurt me."
"I didn't! I mean, not really. I don't even know how it happened! And I'm not even sure what was happening was sex. And I'm pretty sure I was dead at the time."
"You're a monster!"
"I was dead!"
"You know how much I love him!"
"I do! That's why I wouldn't do it in real life! He was the one who was sleeping with a dead person! Go talk to him!"
"He was in YOUR brain!"
"You see? I didn't even sleep with him. I slept with some sort of extension of myself who looked like him."
"You should have known better!"
"I was dead! And also asleep! And also it didn't happen. You're wasting my time, I have a witch job interview in twenty minutes and I need to be there because I need this job. And you aren't going to get in my way," I said triumphantly, and brushed past her.
"You'll pay for this!" she shouted after me.
I made my way through a large building with wall to wall carpet in primary colors. I looked at the business card; "Kevin McKinnis, 4th floor." I arrived at the fourth floor and was met by a tall black woman in a business suit. "Hello," she said. "I'm Kevin."
And then I woke up.
So, I went to bed last night and dreamed I was a witch. A witch that was also going to bed, but this time in a flying car. I said goodnight to the person who was driving and curled up in the backseat. I began to dream, again.
I was with a friend I hadn't seen for a long time and her boyfriend in a hotel room. I was stealing the tiles from the wall since I believed they had some sort of magic property to them, and tiles with magical properties are worth a good deal of money if sold in the right market. Although, I'm not sure why we decided to stay in this hotel in the first place. It was a rundown room with peeling tan paint on the wall, ceiling, and floor. It had a strip of tiles running horizontally on the wall around the room, and had no furniture other than a nasty looking futon and a closet built into the wall. My friend announced she was tired of this place and was going, leaving me alone with her boyfriend in the hotel room. Suddenly, a loud bang shook the tan ceiling and a great chunk of plaster hit me on the head and I promptly died.
The next thing I knew, I was a ghost and having sex with my friend's boyfriend in the closet. Now, I use the term "having sex" loosely, since I'm pretty sure I remember we were both fully clothed at the time, and I, being a ghost, kept floating upwards and kept having to push myself down from the ceiling using the walls. Also, he kept talking about how much he hated all bodily fluids.
"Well, if you hate them that much, we probably shouldn't be doing this," I said.
Then I woke up. I was once again a witch in a flying car, and I felt extremely guilty for being the "other woman" - even if it was in a dream (within a dream.) We landed, and as I got out, I saw my friend standing there waiting for me.
"I want you to tell me the truth," she said, her body stiff and her eyes filled with tears. "Did you dream about having sex with my boyfriend."
I paused, unable to lie to her. "Yes," I said reluctantly, "but I promise, it was only in a dream. It didn't actually happen!"
"You still shouldn't have done it," she said. "You should have known how much it would hurt me."
"I didn't! I mean, not really. I don't even know how it happened! And I'm not even sure what was happening was sex. And I'm pretty sure I was dead at the time."
"You're a monster!"
"I was dead!"
"You know how much I love him!"
"I do! That's why I wouldn't do it in real life! He was the one who was sleeping with a dead person! Go talk to him!"
"He was in YOUR brain!"
"You see? I didn't even sleep with him. I slept with some sort of extension of myself who looked like him."
"You should have known better!"
"I was dead! And also asleep! And also it didn't happen. You're wasting my time, I have a witch job interview in twenty minutes and I need to be there because I need this job. And you aren't going to get in my way," I said triumphantly, and brushed past her.
"You'll pay for this!" she shouted after me.
I made my way through a large building with wall to wall carpet in primary colors. I looked at the business card; "Kevin McKinnis, 4th floor." I arrived at the fourth floor and was met by a tall black woman in a business suit. "Hello," she said. "I'm Kevin."
And then I woke up.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Men!?!?!
I don't understand men, you guys. I keep puzzling and puzzling but no logic I have applied has made me able to comprehend the mind of the human male. It's really been bothering me. So, naturally, I thought I might pose my question to the interwebs.
First, I thought I'd list my findings. I apologize if they may seem offensive - I'm just stating what I've found. In fact, I hope my comments do sound ignorant, so that someone will angrily correct me and tell me that the world isn't as horrible as I've come to think it is.
1) Men want ladies to look a certain way.
I know it's girls who are supposed to be catty, but I've never heard any of my girl friends talk about a woman's body the way my guy friends do. It's only from males that I've heard things like, "There's a lot of girls wearing leggings who should NOT be wearing leggings," or "Her boobs sure are saggy," or even "She's pretty, but her skin gets ashy in the winter." All of these comments are made about girls who, to me, look perfectly fine, with fine legs, nice boobs and good skin. I can't even imagine what they say about girls who really do have big legs, or saggy boobs, or ashy skin. And I don't know why they think they have a right to say what a girl should or should not be wearing or describe a girl's body with negative language, as if they're some sort of body appraisal service, determining the worth of each woman with a single glance.
And it's not just my friends. When I overhear guys talking about a girl, say in the dining hall or in the library, she's usually getting a breakdown, body part by body part. Different parts of her anatomy are appraised, but I rarely hear a thing about the girl's personality. This could even be extended to catcalls and such on the street. It's like a shouted out appraisal of a woman's body, when no one's asked for it.
I keep hoping that it's by freak chance that I've constantly been coming across guys talking about girls like this. I hope that the guys I've heard/overheard are the only guys who've ever done this.
But that seems unlikely, since only one type of woman's body type is represented on television and in movies - that is, if the character is to at any point date or have some sort of physical romantic encounter onscreen. The only difference I've seen lately is "Mike and Molly," and I feel like that's the exception that proves the rule. Even if there's a bunch of "normal people" being represented, many of the men will be average looking but whatever female is present must be stunning and never the slightest bit ugly or overweight.
Let me share an experience with you. When I was in a Health class in my freshman year, my teacher brought up cellulite. A large amount of the class yelled "EWWWWW" at the description. When one guy pointed out that our culture made us all think cellulite was disgusting, another yelled out "BECAUSE IT IS!!!" These were the same people who talked about how stupid women were for buying diet pills and creams and beauty products. But I tell you, I would have paid anyone anything at that moment to not have a room of a hundred fifty people tell me my body was disgusting. I still cry when I think about that day. And the worst is, that it seems like not only do women have to have their bodies look a certain way, but they also have to come by it naturally. No surgery, no pills, no fixing. You have to be born perfect. Otherwise, stay indoors, because you are disgusting.
2) Men are comparing all women to an ideal.
So, since men still want to have sex with ladies, there must be certain bodies they approve of. Or, to be specific, body parts they approve of. I have yet to find a lady who fits the entire description, but thanks to photoshop, the ideal can be nearly approached (while still allowing people a few trifles to dislike so it's still safe to look down on her.) Here is a list of what you need as a lady to not be disgusting:
If a girl does not possess one or more of these features, she is deserving of criticism and her faults should be pointed out immediately. Also, her lack of possession of these features is entirely her fault, and if she attains any of these qualities in a manner other than her natural DNA, she is to be criticized because she is therefore not "real" enough.
3. Men upgrade.
It's pretty simple - as a man gets more powerful or attractive, he will have a girl that is closer and closer to the above ideal. No girl can actually attain perfection, but some can come much closer than others, and those are the ones who attract powerful and/or attractive guys. And if at any point a guy becomes more
powerful or handsome, or if the woman he previously attained no longer has the proximity to perfection she has previously held, a man will leave his previous lover obtain a woman closer to the ideal. I have seen this in popular culture and with people very close to me. Some men don't do this when they grown in beauty or power, I know. But the fact that they are anomalies bothers me very much. I have not seen the same trend in beautiful/powerful women.
So...
Does this mean that if a man pursues you, it's because he thinks you are the best he's going to get at the moment? According to evolution, I guess this would make sense, but all this conflicts with observation number four...
4. Men fall in love.
I've heard of this too many times for it not to be true. Otherwise, where would all these love songs come from? I'd even go so far as to say as I've seen men in love. I've seen them look at a girl with such tenderness it would break your heart.
So...
HOW THE FUCK CAN THIS WORK?!? Is it that sometimes a man doesn't realize a certain woman not perfect until the buzz of romance has worn off? Is it that once the buzz has worn off, he's realized he cares about her as a person and can "forgive" the imperfections he has just found? (Until the imperfections grow in number, that is.)
If this is true, how will those of us who are very obviously imperfect ever receive love? Why do we straight women want that love so badly? (That's a question for another day.) I look in the mirror and I am basically the antithesis of two thirds of the things on that list, and that number will only grow with time and age. What am I supposed to do? I already walk down the street imagining all the nasty things the guys I pass must be thinking about my body. Does this also mean that, unless I can find a way to disguise my imperfections, I am destined to be unloved? Am I really what they say I am - disgusting?
Please, someone tell me this is not true. Someone tell me that I've grossly misjudged the male kind and that they love women for who they are and for their uniqueness, not their conformity to an imitation of an imitation. Someone chew me apart and tell me I'm stupid to say such things and that my observations are completely false. Please. Please. Someone. Please.
First, I thought I'd list my findings. I apologize if they may seem offensive - I'm just stating what I've found. In fact, I hope my comments do sound ignorant, so that someone will angrily correct me and tell me that the world isn't as horrible as I've come to think it is.
1) Men want ladies to look a certain way.
I know it's girls who are supposed to be catty, but I've never heard any of my girl friends talk about a woman's body the way my guy friends do. It's only from males that I've heard things like, "There's a lot of girls wearing leggings who should NOT be wearing leggings," or "Her boobs sure are saggy," or even "She's pretty, but her skin gets ashy in the winter." All of these comments are made about girls who, to me, look perfectly fine, with fine legs, nice boobs and good skin. I can't even imagine what they say about girls who really do have big legs, or saggy boobs, or ashy skin. And I don't know why they think they have a right to say what a girl should or should not be wearing or describe a girl's body with negative language, as if they're some sort of body appraisal service, determining the worth of each woman with a single glance.
And it's not just my friends. When I overhear guys talking about a girl, say in the dining hall or in the library, she's usually getting a breakdown, body part by body part. Different parts of her anatomy are appraised, but I rarely hear a thing about the girl's personality. This could even be extended to catcalls and such on the street. It's like a shouted out appraisal of a woman's body, when no one's asked for it.
I keep hoping that it's by freak chance that I've constantly been coming across guys talking about girls like this. I hope that the guys I've heard/overheard are the only guys who've ever done this.
But that seems unlikely, since only one type of woman's body type is represented on television and in movies - that is, if the character is to at any point date or have some sort of physical romantic encounter onscreen. The only difference I've seen lately is "Mike and Molly," and I feel like that's the exception that proves the rule. Even if there's a bunch of "normal people" being represented, many of the men will be average looking but whatever female is present must be stunning and never the slightest bit ugly or overweight.
Let me share an experience with you. When I was in a Health class in my freshman year, my teacher brought up cellulite. A large amount of the class yelled "EWWWWW" at the description. When one guy pointed out that our culture made us all think cellulite was disgusting, another yelled out "BECAUSE IT IS!!!" These were the same people who talked about how stupid women were for buying diet pills and creams and beauty products. But I tell you, I would have paid anyone anything at that moment to not have a room of a hundred fifty people tell me my body was disgusting. I still cry when I think about that day. And the worst is, that it seems like not only do women have to have their bodies look a certain way, but they also have to come by it naturally. No surgery, no pills, no fixing. You have to be born perfect. Otherwise, stay indoors, because you are disgusting.
2) Men are comparing all women to an ideal.
So, since men still want to have sex with ladies, there must be certain bodies they approve of. Or, to be specific, body parts they approve of. I have yet to find a lady who fits the entire description, but thanks to photoshop, the ideal can be nearly approached (while still allowing people a few trifles to dislike so it's still safe to look down on her.) Here is a list of what you need as a lady to not be disgusting:
- Pretty, nice-smelling hair.
- A forehead that is not too big or too small
- Thin eyebrows
- Large eyes
- A small nose
- Large lips
- White, straight, not-too-big teeth with small gums
- Small ears, flat to the head
- A long, graceful neck - but not too long!
- Small shoulders
- Hairless underarms
- Thin arms and small hands
- Gigantic breasts that do not sag. They point straight ahead and are perfectly round. Also the nipples must be tiny.
- Hard abs, a curved back, and a nipped-in waist. Also the belly button must be an innie.
- A gigantic butt that doesn't sag and that has no cellulite whatsoever
- Fatless hips that are also somehow round
- A tiny hairless vagina
- Thin, sleek legs that still have shape to them. Oh, and no hair on those either
- Tiny feet with no bunions or corns or long toes
- She may not, under any circumstances, be fat in any way
- She may not, under any circumstances, be old
If a girl does not possess one or more of these features, she is deserving of criticism and her faults should be pointed out immediately. Also, her lack of possession of these features is entirely her fault, and if she attains any of these qualities in a manner other than her natural DNA, she is to be criticized because she is therefore not "real" enough.
3. Men upgrade.
It's pretty simple - as a man gets more powerful or attractive, he will have a girl that is closer and closer to the above ideal. No girl can actually attain perfection, but some can come much closer than others, and those are the ones who attract powerful and/or attractive guys. And if at any point a guy becomes more
powerful or handsome, or if the woman he previously attained no longer has the proximity to perfection she has previously held, a man will leave his previous lover obtain a woman closer to the ideal. I have seen this in popular culture and with people very close to me. Some men don't do this when they grown in beauty or power, I know. But the fact that they are anomalies bothers me very much. I have not seen the same trend in beautiful/powerful women.
So...
Does this mean that if a man pursues you, it's because he thinks you are the best he's going to get at the moment? According to evolution, I guess this would make sense, but all this conflicts with observation number four...
4. Men fall in love.
I've heard of this too many times for it not to be true. Otherwise, where would all these love songs come from? I'd even go so far as to say as I've seen men in love. I've seen them look at a girl with such tenderness it would break your heart.
So...
HOW THE FUCK CAN THIS WORK?!? Is it that sometimes a man doesn't realize a certain woman not perfect until the buzz of romance has worn off? Is it that once the buzz has worn off, he's realized he cares about her as a person and can "forgive" the imperfections he has just found? (Until the imperfections grow in number, that is.)
If this is true, how will those of us who are very obviously imperfect ever receive love? Why do we straight women want that love so badly? (That's a question for another day.) I look in the mirror and I am basically the antithesis of two thirds of the things on that list, and that number will only grow with time and age. What am I supposed to do? I already walk down the street imagining all the nasty things the guys I pass must be thinking about my body. Does this also mean that, unless I can find a way to disguise my imperfections, I am destined to be unloved? Am I really what they say I am - disgusting?
Please, someone tell me this is not true. Someone tell me that I've grossly misjudged the male kind and that they love women for who they are and for their uniqueness, not their conformity to an imitation of an imitation. Someone chew me apart and tell me I'm stupid to say such things and that my observations are completely false. Please. Please. Someone. Please.
Monday, March 28, 2011
In Further News
In further news regarding my existence as a New Yorker, I feel that up til now I've been a timid observer, scoping out a new place. Now that spring break has passed, I plan on being an aggressive participant.
So far I have:
1) Hung out with my two new friends (on the same day, no less) and therefore actively began building the foundation for an actual, functional social life.
2) Spent an evening (as in, 10pm to 2am) at the Bowery Poetry Club, apparently a very "indie" place where "underground" bands play. Basically this means bearded men and pbr, which were both in plentiful supply. I was even treated to a taste of the fabled hipster drink - I made an intoxicated new friend who bought me my very own - who apparently missed the silver sharpie X's on my hand. It tasted good at first (beer remains the only alcoholic drink I can stomach), but by the time one gets to the bottom there arrives a fruity aftertaste that makes one reluctant to have another. Also I realized I was on Dayquil and probably shouldn't be drinking in the first place. Which was just as well. I was super paranoid that the bouncer who drew my X's would come storming in and, finding beer in my hand, grab me by the collar and throw me out into the street, or call the cops and send me away to prison. Perhaps I worry too much. But still, don't tell my mother.
3) Attended "A Taste of New York," a program that weekly takes students to restaurants we couldn't otherwise afford. In a cruel twist of fate, the RA in charge was the RA at the window from my washing machine adventure! Which would have made things awkward had she not been so sweet and the perogies so delicious (it was a Ukranian deli - Mom, if you're reading this, sorry about the second adventure, and also WE'RE GOING TO THIS PLACE). At least it gave me a chance to apologize. The only other attendee was a tall swingdancer named Kevin. I had hoped we could be friends after this, but I can't find him on facebook.
4) Stumbled into a foreign film club and watched XXY, a movie about an intersexed, sexual preteen. It was pretty interesting, and also Argentinian. I was invited to their weekly meetings, which I will definitely go to. I also ate some of their fantastic food, which leads me to believe that one could eat for free everyday if one was in enough clubs. Something to consider.
And now it's Monday, and although I'll probably not go on any adventures today (Spanish test tomorrow and all that) I at least have a Foreign Film Club meeting on Wednesday. Cheers!
So far I have:
1) Hung out with my two new friends (on the same day, no less) and therefore actively began building the foundation for an actual, functional social life.
2) Spent an evening (as in, 10pm to 2am) at the Bowery Poetry Club, apparently a very "indie" place where "underground" bands play. Basically this means bearded men and pbr, which were both in plentiful supply. I was even treated to a taste of the fabled hipster drink - I made an intoxicated new friend who bought me my very own - who apparently missed the silver sharpie X's on my hand. It tasted good at first (beer remains the only alcoholic drink I can stomach), but by the time one gets to the bottom there arrives a fruity aftertaste that makes one reluctant to have another. Also I realized I was on Dayquil and probably shouldn't be drinking in the first place. Which was just as well. I was super paranoid that the bouncer who drew my X's would come storming in and, finding beer in my hand, grab me by the collar and throw me out into the street, or call the cops and send me away to prison. Perhaps I worry too much. But still, don't tell my mother.
3) Attended "A Taste of New York," a program that weekly takes students to restaurants we couldn't otherwise afford. In a cruel twist of fate, the RA in charge was the RA at the window from my washing machine adventure! Which would have made things awkward had she not been so sweet and the perogies so delicious (it was a Ukranian deli - Mom, if you're reading this, sorry about the second adventure, and also WE'RE GOING TO THIS PLACE). At least it gave me a chance to apologize. The only other attendee was a tall swingdancer named Kevin. I had hoped we could be friends after this, but I can't find him on facebook.
4) Stumbled into a foreign film club and watched XXY, a movie about an intersexed, sexual preteen. It was pretty interesting, and also Argentinian. I was invited to their weekly meetings, which I will definitely go to. I also ate some of their fantastic food, which leads me to believe that one could eat for free everyday if one was in enough clubs. Something to consider.
And now it's Monday, and although I'll probably not go on any adventures today (Spanish test tomorrow and all that) I at least have a Foreign Film Club meeting on Wednesday. Cheers!
Niceity
I think I've been slowly losing my niceness. If you knew me in my high school days, I wasn't just nice back then. I was Nice. It was my defining characteristic, the ruling factor that was noticed and praised (much to my dismay, at times - what personality trait is as bland and dismissive as "nice"?) But for me it was true. I saw beauty in every person, and found each human as wonderful, perfect, and worthy. And as everyone knows, an excess of anything is bad. My Niceness caused me to see myself as the only fallible and unworthy person in the world. It lead to a summer ruled by wasted afternoons, curled in bed telling myself how horrid I was, and imagining the day when everyone's true repulsion for me would come to the surface and I would be finally shunned by society as I deserved. And every day people continued to stay by me, I was grateful, and even more convinced of their saintliness, and my terribleness in comparison.
So as one can imagine, the initial departure of my Niceness was met with joy and relief. I began to see people as they are - fallible, imperfect, and, most importantly, my equals. My love for my friends and peers didn't change, but I was now willing to see some disruptions in the friendship as partially their faults, not solely mine. I was becoming bolder and less likely to take abuse, which was a definite positive.
However, this led to certain realizations about certain friendships that may have been, in my blindness, abusive. I realized a friend is not a friend if they actively resent and hurt you. And though I felt liberated from these situations, I became another thing I was not previously - Angry. I was angry at myself for blindly trusting people (and institutions - I'm sure I'll rant about my sour relationship with the once-trusted educational institution some other time), and angry at them for taking advantage of my innocence. Thing anger about a thing I could not change turned to Bitterness.
And in my Bitterness, I began to see things in people I didn't like. Foolishness, arrogance, and vacancy of mind bothered me immensely when I viewed them in other people. Only recently - only since my life has righted itself and started moving forward again after several technical difficulties - have I began to enjoy people fully again. But I am not back to that ever assured all-loving always sweet place called Nice.
Anyway, that's the back story. This all lead up to the day the washer broke. I had put off laundry for too long, and my clothes had begun to form strata in my hamper. I finally loaded my clothes into the shiny silver bowels of the washing machine and settled down in the study room to wait. When the time came to unload, one washing machine was finished, but the other still read eight minutes. Although it struck me as odd, since I loaded each at the same time, I decided it was no big deal and to wait a few minutes. I waited eight. Then ten. Then fifteen. The timer still read eight and the washer still whirred, keeping my clothes in a purgatory of cleanliness. I opened the lid. The barrel was half filled with purple water, and my clothes - mostly absorbent, spongy sweaters - floated in the murky liquid. Now, keep in mind my nose was running and my head was throbbing from the remnants of a passing cold. I was not pleased.
I jabbed my finger into the elevator Up button - I'd be damned if this machine would make me take the stairs - and rode up one floor to the lobby where the RA's sat listlessly counting boxes and listening to music.
"Um, I'm sorry to bother you," I said in the sweetest way, "But I think my washer's broken. And all my clothes are inside and it's filled with water."
The pretty girl at the window said, "Oh, um, I guess you need to call the washing machine company."
"The number's on the washing machine," reported a large woman in the back of the room. My face scrunched a little, probably noticeably. I didn't see how I needed to be the one to report this - it was not my washing machine, but the building's that broke. The building should call. But instead of bothering the poor people more, I said thank you and left.
I tromped back downstairs and opened the washer lid. What was once half full of murky water was now completely full, and if I wanted to grab my clothing I'd have to reach in past my elbow, almost to my shoulder. I grabbed a sweater and started to ring it out, but it was made of such absorbent material that no matter how my squeezed and no matter how much ice cold water numbed my arm and dribbled down my shirt, it still remained sopping wet. I called to report the broken washer, hung up, and sighed.
I rode up the elevator again and stomped over to the RA window. "I'm sorry to bother you again," I said a little less sweetly, "But my clothes are in the washer and the water is up to the rim." (which was almost true) "What should I do?"
"Um," said the RA, "You could ring your clothes out."
"These are sweaters," I said less sweetly still. "There's no ringing these out."
"Let's go talk to Sarah" (or something - I wasn't in the mood to be remembering names) "She's in charge of things like this."
We went into a room reminiscent of a principal's office, where a woman close to my age sat at a huge brown desk with much authority.
"You can ring them out," she said.
"Thank you," I said icily. And I left for the basement again.
Once downstairs, I wrenched my clothes from the bowels of the washing machine and put them in another to rinse the soap out of them. As I payed for another load of already washed wash, I still felt dissatisfied. I dialed the number on the washer again.
"Hello, Hercules Washers howmayweassistyou?" trumpeted a nasally New York accent.
"Hello, I just called about about a broken washing machine at 1 East second street?"
"What? Oh, yes I just spoke to you."
"Yes. I want a refund for the money I lost in the broken machine."
"Oh. Alright. How much money did you lose?"
"How much is a regular load?"
"One seventy five."
"That much."
"You want us to refund you... one seventy five?"
"Yes."
"Ok... We'll do that."
I hung up the phone feeling triumphant.
Until I realized I'd have to pay for another dryer load as well.
So as one can imagine, the initial departure of my Niceness was met with joy and relief. I began to see people as they are - fallible, imperfect, and, most importantly, my equals. My love for my friends and peers didn't change, but I was now willing to see some disruptions in the friendship as partially their faults, not solely mine. I was becoming bolder and less likely to take abuse, which was a definite positive.
However, this led to certain realizations about certain friendships that may have been, in my blindness, abusive. I realized a friend is not a friend if they actively resent and hurt you. And though I felt liberated from these situations, I became another thing I was not previously - Angry. I was angry at myself for blindly trusting people (and institutions - I'm sure I'll rant about my sour relationship with the once-trusted educational institution some other time), and angry at them for taking advantage of my innocence. Thing anger about a thing I could not change turned to Bitterness.
And in my Bitterness, I began to see things in people I didn't like. Foolishness, arrogance, and vacancy of mind bothered me immensely when I viewed them in other people. Only recently - only since my life has righted itself and started moving forward again after several technical difficulties - have I began to enjoy people fully again. But I am not back to that ever assured all-loving always sweet place called Nice.
Anyway, that's the back story. This all lead up to the day the washer broke. I had put off laundry for too long, and my clothes had begun to form strata in my hamper. I finally loaded my clothes into the shiny silver bowels of the washing machine and settled down in the study room to wait. When the time came to unload, one washing machine was finished, but the other still read eight minutes. Although it struck me as odd, since I loaded each at the same time, I decided it was no big deal and to wait a few minutes. I waited eight. Then ten. Then fifteen. The timer still read eight and the washer still whirred, keeping my clothes in a purgatory of cleanliness. I opened the lid. The barrel was half filled with purple water, and my clothes - mostly absorbent, spongy sweaters - floated in the murky liquid. Now, keep in mind my nose was running and my head was throbbing from the remnants of a passing cold. I was not pleased.
I jabbed my finger into the elevator Up button - I'd be damned if this machine would make me take the stairs - and rode up one floor to the lobby where the RA's sat listlessly counting boxes and listening to music.
"Um, I'm sorry to bother you," I said in the sweetest way, "But I think my washer's broken. And all my clothes are inside and it's filled with water."
The pretty girl at the window said, "Oh, um, I guess you need to call the washing machine company."
"The number's on the washing machine," reported a large woman in the back of the room. My face scrunched a little, probably noticeably. I didn't see how I needed to be the one to report this - it was not my washing machine, but the building's that broke. The building should call. But instead of bothering the poor people more, I said thank you and left.
I tromped back downstairs and opened the washer lid. What was once half full of murky water was now completely full, and if I wanted to grab my clothing I'd have to reach in past my elbow, almost to my shoulder. I grabbed a sweater and started to ring it out, but it was made of such absorbent material that no matter how my squeezed and no matter how much ice cold water numbed my arm and dribbled down my shirt, it still remained sopping wet. I called to report the broken washer, hung up, and sighed.
I rode up the elevator again and stomped over to the RA window. "I'm sorry to bother you again," I said a little less sweetly, "But my clothes are in the washer and the water is up to the rim." (which was almost true) "What should I do?"
"Um," said the RA, "You could ring your clothes out."
"These are sweaters," I said less sweetly still. "There's no ringing these out."
"Let's go talk to Sarah" (or something - I wasn't in the mood to be remembering names) "She's in charge of things like this."
We went into a room reminiscent of a principal's office, where a woman close to my age sat at a huge brown desk with much authority.
"You can ring them out," she said.
"Thank you," I said icily. And I left for the basement again.
Once downstairs, I wrenched my clothes from the bowels of the washing machine and put them in another to rinse the soap out of them. As I payed for another load of already washed wash, I still felt dissatisfied. I dialed the number on the washer again.
"Hello, Hercules Washers howmayweassistyou?" trumpeted a nasally New York accent.
"Hello, I just called about about a broken washing machine at 1 East second street?"
"What? Oh, yes I just spoke to you."
"Yes. I want a refund for the money I lost in the broken machine."
"Oh. Alright. How much money did you lose?"
"How much is a regular load?"
"One seventy five."
"That much."
"You want us to refund you... one seventy five?"
"Yes."
"Ok... We'll do that."
I hung up the phone feeling triumphant.
Until I realized I'd have to pay for another dryer load as well.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Angsty Poems and Stuff
Hey, I have some poems I wrote while I was here. Thought I'd post them cause I just figured out where they were. If you were hoping to hear an exciting account of glorious adventures, this is not it. I'll write about that tomorrow. I'll write about fashion shows and then I'll write about being sick in New York for the first time. But tonight I have a paper to write and I just found these things. So, poems.
Her
I felt her presence when I was still a child
Felt her twist felt her push
Move,
Already violent in her prenatal state
I would lie awake nights
As she clawed my stomach walls
My intestines were her sheets
My heart her pillow, sopping with drool
Her mouth already open
Hungry
Gasping
Grasping
Grabbing
I'd moan and she would too
And we'd lie together in agony
But inside me she lay unbirthed
Growing abnormally large and festering
From being kept inside so long
I swallowed her.
I grew, so did she, together bigger
For my niceties her evil
For my timidity her brazenness
I remember the first time
She tasted flesh
She came alive
And oh so painfully
I pushed her out
With shrieks of agony
Then pleasure
She feasted
(We feasted)
She bit, tore, hated, ran
Harder
Grabbed tasted licked bit
Chew
Rip
Mean, hard, lashing
We (SHE) Scream
She gasped, sighed, she satisfied
And I was there
And she at sleep
For the first time since I was a child.
Since she was born
She's come out to feast
A demon I keep sleeping safe at my breast
An infant I silently nurture
Hair flowing frazzled
Her eyes
Wild
Mouth open Sweet teeth dripping
Hard
Hungry eyes
I moan
"She"
And I
I cry for those these teeth
Have sunk into
I'm sorry
I must
I must feed
I must feed
My child.
Lunch
Skinny girls eat their pizza
And we our salads
And envy their bare legs
And their boyfriends in tow
Size matters
For everyone.
Her
I felt her presence when I was still a child
Felt her twist felt her push
Move,
Already violent in her prenatal state
I would lie awake nights
As she clawed my stomach walls
My intestines were her sheets
My heart her pillow, sopping with drool
Her mouth already open
Hungry
Gasping
Grasping
Grabbing
I'd moan and she would too
And we'd lie together in agony
But inside me she lay unbirthed
Growing abnormally large and festering
From being kept inside so long
I swallowed her.
I grew, so did she, together bigger
For my niceties her evil
For my timidity her brazenness
I remember the first time
She tasted flesh
She came alive
And oh so painfully
I pushed her out
With shrieks of agony
Then pleasure
She feasted
(We feasted)
She bit, tore, hated, ran
Harder
Grabbed tasted licked bit
Chew
Rip
Mean, hard, lashing
We (SHE) Scream
She gasped, sighed, she satisfied
And I was there
And she at sleep
For the first time since I was a child.
Since she was born
She's come out to feast
A demon I keep sleeping safe at my breast
An infant I silently nurture
Hair flowing frazzled
Her eyes
Wild
Mouth open Sweet teeth dripping
Hard
Hungry eyes
I moan
"She"
And I
I cry for those these teeth
Have sunk into
I'm sorry
I must
I must feed
I must feed
My child.
Lunch
Skinny girls eat their pizza
And we our salads
And envy their bare legs
And their boyfriends in tow
Size matters
For everyone.
Holly Golightly
Dear Blog,
I'm nearly done reading Breakfast at Tiffany's and I mistakenly believe that I should be Holly Golightly. There's a magnetism that surrounds girls who don't need anyone. They tend to attract everyone. I've fallen under the spell of more than a few of these girls, charming and cool, beautiful to watch. They come and they go, and I always wished I had that charm, that vain self-importance that makes them so beloved and yet so despised by those they leave in their wake.
I've never been like that. I've been too sensitive to others' feelings, too eager for friendship and approval. A starry eyed sparrow wishing to be a swan. I think too hard, I've always been too mature and grounded, and I've never learned how to flirt properly. I hate to bother others. I'm an observer. In truth, I'm the nameless narrator in Breakfast at Tiffany's. I'm the take in the mannerisms of my flippant female amours. I soak. I swash them around in my head and puzzle over them with an indescribable yearning. I am bound to be the documenter, not the documented.
Well, so it is. I cause these poor socialites to be remembered. Without those who remember them, these women would be nothing, forgotten. Even if I am not a main character, I have my importance.
I'm nearly done reading Breakfast at Tiffany's and I mistakenly believe that I should be Holly Golightly. There's a magnetism that surrounds girls who don't need anyone. They tend to attract everyone. I've fallen under the spell of more than a few of these girls, charming and cool, beautiful to watch. They come and they go, and I always wished I had that charm, that vain self-importance that makes them so beloved and yet so despised by those they leave in their wake.
I've never been like that. I've been too sensitive to others' feelings, too eager for friendship and approval. A starry eyed sparrow wishing to be a swan. I think too hard, I've always been too mature and grounded, and I've never learned how to flirt properly. I hate to bother others. I'm an observer. In truth, I'm the nameless narrator in Breakfast at Tiffany's. I'm the take in the mannerisms of my flippant female amours. I soak. I swash them around in my head and puzzle over them with an indescribable yearning. I am bound to be the documenter, not the documented.
Well, so it is. I cause these poor socialites to be remembered. Without those who remember them, these women would be nothing, forgotten. Even if I am not a main character, I have my importance.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
For Ian
Alright, alright. Since Ian wants to know what else happened that night, I'll actually finish my story this time.
SO. The manly new york accent belonged to Raphael (or something), a bouncer at the club. Since I had read so many scathing reviews of the bouncers at Webster Hall, I was surprised he greeted me with such cheeriness.
"I'd be sad to see you have to go home and not have a good time tonight!" he boomed.
"I guess."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
*long pause* "...You could still have fun!"
This made me laugh, and since I didn't want to disappoint Raphael, I joined the line to get inside the club. I paid the extraordinarily high amount of money and walked in, X's on both my twenty-year-old hands. I waited in line for the coat check, squashed between a million Belgians who had arrived via limousine. I paid the coat check my last four dollars and was finally ready to dance.
This place was huge, and its main inspiration seemed to be a fun house. The bottom floor had a bar in the middle of it with stages all around (I later learned that these were for strippers. And not just those warm-up-skimpily-dressed dancers they have in all clubs. Legit naked ones with pasties and money in their panties.) A band played on the largest of the stages (for now.) The next floor had popular music blasting in a large open room with lights that flashed a million colors. Bodies bounced, glistening pink, yellow, blue and orange. There was a bar around a corner and some stairs, which lead to a small hallway with piercing yellow spotlights shining on the wooden floor. The hallway lead to a ballroom that must have been three stories high. A DJ on a massive stage blasted electronic music so loudly that I could feel my bones rattling. A huge screen projected swirling lights and the whole room was bright and loud. This was where most people seemed to be at the moment, so I stopped and started to dance along with them.
I noticed a boy in an orange shirt was moving closer to me, but I ignored him until he was right by my side. He locked eyes with me and shouted a request to dance. As any girl knows, a boy in his early twenties who actually asks your permission before grinding up on you is a rarity, so I decided to concede and dance with him. This was a mistake. He glued himself to me so closely that it felt more like we were hugging than dancing. And there has never been a man who has smelled more like a vagina in the history of the world. It took thirty seconds for me to declare a need for the bathroom and retreat back to the lower levels.
The middle level was filling up fast. Kids younger than me sipped beer and clambered over the couches in the far side of the room, dancing. I stayed for a minute on the sidelines and realized that this DJ was quite talented - he mixed up popular songs without completely distorting the music. We were actually able to sing along! I started dancing with a tall, stylish man who, unlike the mangina upstairs, could actually dance. I learned later, when he bought me a water, he was from West Africa and was staying in New York for two months. I forget his name, but I do remember there were a lot of O's in it. He was a nice guy. He walked me home. (Which was more of an annoyance than a help, since he walked so much slower than I did.)
However, there was a point at which Mr. O and I were separated. During this time I was excited to be able to dance by myself, but every five seconds I had to push another guy away from me. They snuck up like crabs on the beach at night. I was not pleased. But the music was great and sometimes I could get in a whole minute of dancing without anyone creeping up behind me.
Once, however, I took a break in the lounge by the bar. I was about to start playing some Angry Birds when someone plopped down beside me and pressed his leg into mine. I looked up. It was Mangina.
"Where'd juu go?" He slurred.
"I had to go to the bathroom."
"Where... what school do you go to?"
"NYU."
"No way! I just... graduated from there! I got a job... in the office!"
"That's nice. I have to go. Nice talking with you."
The best part of the night by far, though, was when I spotted two tiny, buttoned up, white-shirt-black-pleated-pants-wearing Asian men standing in the crowd, ignored by everyone else. And I got them to dance. I locked eyes with them, smiled, and waved at them to dance. They were absolutely terrible dancers, but in the best possible way. We formed one of those circles friends make at eighth grade dances and mimicked each others' dancing. A Persian guy stood off to the side and I motioned for him to join our circle. Soon others joined. Some guy began to try to teach me to swing dance. It was a lot of fun. Then Mr. O found me and joined in, which I guess made Persian Guy jealous, since he kept trying to pull me away from Mr. O. That was when I thought it might be time to go sit down.
While Mr. O was getting me my water, Persian Guy knelt down on the floor beside me.
"Will you dance with me?" He pleaded.
I didn't want to dance anymore. I put on my best sophisticated Audrey Hepburn face. "I'm taking a break right now."
"Please. There are not other girls like you. You are very special. I am not usually on my knees asking girls to dance with me."
"Well, thank you," I said, enjoying the ego boost but unwilling to be manipulated. "But I don't really want to dance right now."
He nodded, and got to his feet. I drank my water and tried to listen to Mr. O's story through the club music and his French West African accent. After that, I felt a wave of fatigue. It was time to go home.
As I left the club, Raphael the Bouncer stopped me.
"Did you have a good time?" He asked.
"Yes, thank you."
"You're leaving early."
"I... have to get up early tomorrow morning. But thank you."
"No, thank you. I'm glad you had a good time. My name's Raphael and I'm always working here."
I smiled and turned toward home.
SO. The manly new york accent belonged to Raphael (or something), a bouncer at the club. Since I had read so many scathing reviews of the bouncers at Webster Hall, I was surprised he greeted me with such cheeriness.
"I'd be sad to see you have to go home and not have a good time tonight!" he boomed.
"I guess."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes."
*long pause* "...You could still have fun!"
This made me laugh, and since I didn't want to disappoint Raphael, I joined the line to get inside the club. I paid the extraordinarily high amount of money and walked in, X's on both my twenty-year-old hands. I waited in line for the coat check, squashed between a million Belgians who had arrived via limousine. I paid the coat check my last four dollars and was finally ready to dance.
This place was huge, and its main inspiration seemed to be a fun house. The bottom floor had a bar in the middle of it with stages all around (I later learned that these were for strippers. And not just those warm-up-skimpily-dressed dancers they have in all clubs. Legit naked ones with pasties and money in their panties.) A band played on the largest of the stages (for now.) The next floor had popular music blasting in a large open room with lights that flashed a million colors. Bodies bounced, glistening pink, yellow, blue and orange. There was a bar around a corner and some stairs, which lead to a small hallway with piercing yellow spotlights shining on the wooden floor. The hallway lead to a ballroom that must have been three stories high. A DJ on a massive stage blasted electronic music so loudly that I could feel my bones rattling. A huge screen projected swirling lights and the whole room was bright and loud. This was where most people seemed to be at the moment, so I stopped and started to dance along with them.
I noticed a boy in an orange shirt was moving closer to me, but I ignored him until he was right by my side. He locked eyes with me and shouted a request to dance. As any girl knows, a boy in his early twenties who actually asks your permission before grinding up on you is a rarity, so I decided to concede and dance with him. This was a mistake. He glued himself to me so closely that it felt more like we were hugging than dancing. And there has never been a man who has smelled more like a vagina in the history of the world. It took thirty seconds for me to declare a need for the bathroom and retreat back to the lower levels.
The middle level was filling up fast. Kids younger than me sipped beer and clambered over the couches in the far side of the room, dancing. I stayed for a minute on the sidelines and realized that this DJ was quite talented - he mixed up popular songs without completely distorting the music. We were actually able to sing along! I started dancing with a tall, stylish man who, unlike the mangina upstairs, could actually dance. I learned later, when he bought me a water, he was from West Africa and was staying in New York for two months. I forget his name, but I do remember there were a lot of O's in it. He was a nice guy. He walked me home. (Which was more of an annoyance than a help, since he walked so much slower than I did.)
However, there was a point at which Mr. O and I were separated. During this time I was excited to be able to dance by myself, but every five seconds I had to push another guy away from me. They snuck up like crabs on the beach at night. I was not pleased. But the music was great and sometimes I could get in a whole minute of dancing without anyone creeping up behind me.
Once, however, I took a break in the lounge by the bar. I was about to start playing some Angry Birds when someone plopped down beside me and pressed his leg into mine. I looked up. It was Mangina.
"Where'd juu go?" He slurred.
"I had to go to the bathroom."
"Where... what school do you go to?"
"NYU."
"No way! I just... graduated from there! I got a job... in the office!"
"That's nice. I have to go. Nice talking with you."
The best part of the night by far, though, was when I spotted two tiny, buttoned up, white-shirt-black-pleated-pants-wearing Asian men standing in the crowd, ignored by everyone else. And I got them to dance. I locked eyes with them, smiled, and waved at them to dance. They were absolutely terrible dancers, but in the best possible way. We formed one of those circles friends make at eighth grade dances and mimicked each others' dancing. A Persian guy stood off to the side and I motioned for him to join our circle. Soon others joined. Some guy began to try to teach me to swing dance. It was a lot of fun. Then Mr. O found me and joined in, which I guess made Persian Guy jealous, since he kept trying to pull me away from Mr. O. That was when I thought it might be time to go sit down.
While Mr. O was getting me my water, Persian Guy knelt down on the floor beside me.
"Will you dance with me?" He pleaded.
I didn't want to dance anymore. I put on my best sophisticated Audrey Hepburn face. "I'm taking a break right now."
"Please. There are not other girls like you. You are very special. I am not usually on my knees asking girls to dance with me."
"Well, thank you," I said, enjoying the ego boost but unwilling to be manipulated. "But I don't really want to dance right now."
He nodded, and got to his feet. I drank my water and tried to listen to Mr. O's story through the club music and his French West African accent. After that, I felt a wave of fatigue. It was time to go home.
As I left the club, Raphael the Bouncer stopped me.
"Did you have a good time?" He asked.
"Yes, thank you."
"You're leaving early."
"I... have to get up early tomorrow morning. But thank you."
"No, thank you. I'm glad you had a good time. My name's Raphael and I'm always working here."
I smiled and turned toward home.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Creepers be Creepin'
New York has some of the most tenacious creepers I have ever met. Just when you think all the guys near Greenwich village are gay, these guys come crawling out of the woodwork to make the club a sausage fest and dancing impossible.
After listening to the storyteller, I came home, wrote a blog post (as you can tell), and got ready for the night's second event - going to the club.
Ava had told me of a club not far away from where we live, up on 11th street. I felt good, I felt pretty, and I strutted down the street to meet my destiny. The late night bookstore wasn't even able to distract me for more than ten minutes. I was a woman on a mission.
But when I saw the entrance teaming with people, blocking the sidewalk, I was a little unnerved. As I backed up to abort my plan, I heard a smooth New York accent from the exit of the club, the kind you hear in gangster movies.
More later. I'm too tired. Stay tuned.
After listening to the storyteller, I came home, wrote a blog post (as you can tell), and got ready for the night's second event - going to the club.
Ava had told me of a club not far away from where we live, up on 11th street. I felt good, I felt pretty, and I strutted down the street to meet my destiny. The late night bookstore wasn't even able to distract me for more than ten minutes. I was a woman on a mission.
But when I saw the entrance teaming with people, blocking the sidewalk, I was a little unnerved. As I backed up to abort my plan, I heard a smooth New York accent from the exit of the club, the kind you hear in gangster movies.
More later. I'm too tired. Stay tuned.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Players
It's week three and I still have a sorry lack of friends. Which led me to search for something, anything to do on a Friday night. After perusing the web sites for under 21 nightlife (damn this age - in Hell we're all 20) and finding little to nothing, I, in a last kick of enthusiasm, picked an event from the NYU calendar to attend. It had a vague title - Storytelling at the Provincetown Playhouse: For Love... And the Provincetown. But it had storytelling in it, and I had acquired an appreciation of spoken tales from Governor's School, where Ad, a teacher of unclear sexual orientation (a topic of much discusion amongst the students), had a talent for telling amazing stories about the Civil War and bears.
Anyway, I figured it would be a better way to spend my evening than playing neopets again. And if I didn't get into a club later, I would have at least done something tonight. And who knows? Maybe there would be someone there who would be my friend.
There was no one there to be my friend. Although it was put on by NYU, this storytelling was being performed for a strictly over-40 crowd, with the exception of two kids who played Gameboy Advance for the entire show. So I sat alone, and hoped that this would be more amusing than that time my grandparents took me to see a silent movie about space.
It was. It was fantastic. It was one woman who told stories both made up and real about the very area, the very theatre we were in. She told us about revolutionaries that included Marcel Duchamp climbing to the top of the Washington Square Memorial and declaring Greenwich Village an independent nation. She told us about intellectuals and writers who lived here in the twenties, now mostly remembered by tourists who read the plaques on the older buildings. She read us their poems and she described how they all interacted, and she reminded me of why I came to New York.
This was the New York I dreamed of, where the people who will change the world meet and create their world-changing creations. Where everything is questioned, where everything is dramatic and real and the occurances on one small street can be talked about for hundreds of years to come. It's always been a secret dream of mine to be one of those intellectual writers, to voice thoughts that will echo through distance and time.
I swallowed my timidity - a trait that has been terminal to my social interactions here - and approached the woman (Regina Ress, or so it said on the flier) who was shaking hands and embracing all her friends who had come. When the crowd had subsided, I moved forward and put out my hand. She grasped it so firmly, it was as if within that shake she was holding my entire body.
"I just wanted to say thank you. I might be the only person in this line who doesn't know you, but it really was lovely."
"Thank you." She said with sincerity. "Who are you?"
"Me? I'm nobody."
Ms. Ress was appalled by my apparently ludicrous statement. "You're not nobody!" She exclaimed. "Are you an NYU student? Then you're not nobody! You must be somebody!" This seemed so genuinely meant that I almost burst into tears right in front of the woman with the flaming red hair and the vocal tone echoing back from the first half of the twentieth century.
She was very happy someone had paid attention to the postings on the NYU website and thanked me dearly for coming. As I left my hands were shaking, not just from the warm touch (a thing I miss very much when I have no friends or family around) but because this woman, who knew the stories of the bohemians that changed the world from right here in Greenwich Village, said that I was somebody. Of course it was a throwaway statement. Of course she most likely meant that everyone out there is somebody and nobody is "nobody," as I had claimed to be. But it still made me feel important, like somehow I too could write things that would be remembered and live a life that someday a girl a hundred years from now could dream of. An important, somebody life. As I walked past the boys and girls in their all black going-out outfits with their cigarrettes and laughter, silently sliding through them like a shadow or a ghost, I looked at the lights on the Washington Square memorial, so bright and so warm against the stone cold white. And I paused - just for a moment - with the arch in my eyes - and I was glad.
Anyway, I figured it would be a better way to spend my evening than playing neopets again. And if I didn't get into a club later, I would have at least done something tonight. And who knows? Maybe there would be someone there who would be my friend.
There was no one there to be my friend. Although it was put on by NYU, this storytelling was being performed for a strictly over-40 crowd, with the exception of two kids who played Gameboy Advance for the entire show. So I sat alone, and hoped that this would be more amusing than that time my grandparents took me to see a silent movie about space.
It was. It was fantastic. It was one woman who told stories both made up and real about the very area, the very theatre we were in. She told us about revolutionaries that included Marcel Duchamp climbing to the top of the Washington Square Memorial and declaring Greenwich Village an independent nation. She told us about intellectuals and writers who lived here in the twenties, now mostly remembered by tourists who read the plaques on the older buildings. She read us their poems and she described how they all interacted, and she reminded me of why I came to New York.
This was the New York I dreamed of, where the people who will change the world meet and create their world-changing creations. Where everything is questioned, where everything is dramatic and real and the occurances on one small street can be talked about for hundreds of years to come. It's always been a secret dream of mine to be one of those intellectual writers, to voice thoughts that will echo through distance and time.
I swallowed my timidity - a trait that has been terminal to my social interactions here - and approached the woman (Regina Ress, or so it said on the flier) who was shaking hands and embracing all her friends who had come. When the crowd had subsided, I moved forward and put out my hand. She grasped it so firmly, it was as if within that shake she was holding my entire body.
"I just wanted to say thank you. I might be the only person in this line who doesn't know you, but it really was lovely."
"Thank you." She said with sincerity. "Who are you?"
"Me? I'm nobody."
Ms. Ress was appalled by my apparently ludicrous statement. "You're not nobody!" She exclaimed. "Are you an NYU student? Then you're not nobody! You must be somebody!" This seemed so genuinely meant that I almost burst into tears right in front of the woman with the flaming red hair and the vocal tone echoing back from the first half of the twentieth century.
She was very happy someone had paid attention to the postings on the NYU website and thanked me dearly for coming. As I left my hands were shaking, not just from the warm touch (a thing I miss very much when I have no friends or family around) but because this woman, who knew the stories of the bohemians that changed the world from right here in Greenwich Village, said that I was somebody. Of course it was a throwaway statement. Of course she most likely meant that everyone out there is somebody and nobody is "nobody," as I had claimed to be. But it still made me feel important, like somehow I too could write things that would be remembered and live a life that someday a girl a hundred years from now could dream of. An important, somebody life. As I walked past the boys and girls in their all black going-out outfits with their cigarrettes and laughter, silently sliding through them like a shadow or a ghost, I looked at the lights on the Washington Square memorial, so bright and so warm against the stone cold white. And I paused - just for a moment - with the arch in my eyes - and I was glad.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Oh What a Night
Strand bookstore. Giftcards. Starbucks. Things that start with the letter B. Puddles. New Literary Movement: Collective Santa. Hipsters: Gotta catch 'em all. Brooklyn. Silent Jew Parade. Subways. The Birds.
All part of my night.
Stay tuned, maybe I'll tell you about it.
Maybe.
All part of my night.
Stay tuned, maybe I'll tell you about it.
Maybe.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
I thought I might do an overview of my classes and teachers here at NYU, since I have nothing else to do because of this snow day thing. SO.
1) Literary Criticism.
I think I'm going to really like this class. Because of some weird glitch in the NYU system, our class has six people while the other Literary Criticism class held at the same time next door has over 20. So we have a general education class that is strangely intimate and... well, small. Although that does mean that we all have to talk more. And I'm always super nervous I'll say something stupid and the rest of the class will regard me as "the dumb one." Is that irrational? Maybe. Or maybe it's rational.
Anyway, the teacher's pretty cool. He seems young, though it's hard to tell when he has that Indie Hipster beard going. Well, maybe it's not a beard. It's sort of in the mid-stage between scruffle and beard. Buffle. Sceard. But he's super sweet and already knows our names. If I could find someone like him my age to be my hipster indie beareded best friend, I would probably be the happiest person ever.
2) British Literature I:
Ahh. The class where we learn about Beowulf. Yay.
Actually it's not that bad. I learned a lot of background about the text that I didn't know before (and that, incidentally, made the whole mess a lot cooler), like that it was actually an historical poem written several centuries after the events had taken place. And that for a long time nobody liked it because they thought it was a "fairy story" and not actually of any historical significance until J. R. R. Tolkien wrote a paper on it. And then everyone was like "Hey this is actually cool hooray!" Or whatever people said back in the first half of the 20th century.
So here's a little paragraph I wrote on the first day of classes about my Brit Lit teacher. I wrote it to keep myself awake in the sweltering hot of the classroom. Here it is:
"Never has a daintier man taught British Literature, and I suspect that's something to be said, considering the field. Although outwards he appears an average New Yorker (young, Jewish, homosexual) with a long sleeved shirt under a short sleeved shirt in two different shades of black. But his speaking is so precise, his posture so correct, that he seems as rigid and breakable as a glass miniature. There is not a sloppy move in this man's repertoire. Although I'd be afraid to even brush against him for fear he may break, I'd like to have a tea party with him and my teddy bear some day."
More soon! Oh, and I finally actually turned 20 on Monday. Let the decade begin!
1) Literary Criticism.
I think I'm going to really like this class. Because of some weird glitch in the NYU system, our class has six people while the other Literary Criticism class held at the same time next door has over 20. So we have a general education class that is strangely intimate and... well, small. Although that does mean that we all have to talk more. And I'm always super nervous I'll say something stupid and the rest of the class will regard me as "the dumb one." Is that irrational? Maybe. Or maybe it's rational.
Anyway, the teacher's pretty cool. He seems young, though it's hard to tell when he has that Indie Hipster beard going. Well, maybe it's not a beard. It's sort of in the mid-stage between scruffle and beard. Buffle. Sceard. But he's super sweet and already knows our names. If I could find someone like him my age to be my hipster indie beareded best friend, I would probably be the happiest person ever.
2) British Literature I:
Ahh. The class where we learn about Beowulf. Yay.
Actually it's not that bad. I learned a lot of background about the text that I didn't know before (and that, incidentally, made the whole mess a lot cooler), like that it was actually an historical poem written several centuries after the events had taken place. And that for a long time nobody liked it because they thought it was a "fairy story" and not actually of any historical significance until J. R. R. Tolkien wrote a paper on it. And then everyone was like "Hey this is actually cool hooray!" Or whatever people said back in the first half of the 20th century.
So here's a little paragraph I wrote on the first day of classes about my Brit Lit teacher. I wrote it to keep myself awake in the sweltering hot of the classroom. Here it is:
"Never has a daintier man taught British Literature, and I suspect that's something to be said, considering the field. Although outwards he appears an average New Yorker (young, Jewish, homosexual) with a long sleeved shirt under a short sleeved shirt in two different shades of black. But his speaking is so precise, his posture so correct, that he seems as rigid and breakable as a glass miniature. There is not a sloppy move in this man's repertoire. Although I'd be afraid to even brush against him for fear he may break, I'd like to have a tea party with him and my teddy bear some day."
More soon! Oh, and I finally actually turned 20 on Monday. Let the decade begin!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
A Night on the Town
It's very hard to get into anywhere when you're under 21 in New York.
I found this out yesterday night. I texted Rachel, saying that it was our first Friday night in New York and we should probably do something since we're young and fabulous. Or something along those lines. Anyway, she agreed (once she woke up from the very popular College Afternoon Nap) and we chose to meet on 3rd Avenue and 8th Street. This was a mistake. Let me tell you a little something about New York - if you travel on the same street for a while, at certain points it will be called something else. This is the case with 8th Street and maybe even 3rd Avenue (I don't know, I don't remember things) at the exact place where we wanted to meet. So for a few extra minutes, Rachel was left in the cold while I walked back and forth trying to figure out where my GPS was telling me to go.
But eventually I found her. We were very excited about the grand adventure we were about to undertake and quickly looked up a jazz club that my roommate had suggested while huddling inside a restaurant pretending to look at drinks. It turned out that the jazz club was on the west side of Manhattan. Since subways are hard to figure out, we decided to walk there.
It was a very enlightening trip. Our conversation resembled our first one:
Rachel: "You just made a Hercules reference! I'm so glad I met you! I love Hercules!"
Alison: "You love Hercules?!"
Rachel: "Yeah, I love Disney Movies!"
Alison: "IUCHXIOAB:WOIAUOWIHK)(^^&E%$@!!!!"
(In case you were wondering, that's the word for pure excitement.)
Also, in case anyone was wondering, Rachel was super impressed by my plan to be all the female Disney characters in order of appearance. I am finally getting the admiration that I deserve for my commitment to Classic Disney. Thank you Rachel.
In any case, although our conversation was super exciting (and involved many more topics than just Disney movies, I promise) it was super duper cold and evil outside and it was a long, long walk. By the time we hit the Hudson River, we knew we'd overshot our destination. Rachel, who was leading our small parade of adventure, felt bad for leading us astray. I assured her that though we were not at our destination, we were much closer than we would have been if I was leading the troops.
So we doubled back. In the cold. We finally found The Fat Cat and could see the warm interior full of checkers and jazz. We were so excited - our first real club.
Bouncer: "We need to see some identification confirming that you're over 21."
Alison: "Ah... we're... not..."
Bouncer: *shakes head with a disgusted look on his face*
Back into the blustery (VERY blustery) cold we went, still optimistic about the possibilities the night held. We stopped for soda/water at a tiny restaurant (called Two Boots because it was a mixture of Italian and Louisiana style food. Get it? Cause both places are shaped like boots?) and decided we were in heaven as long as this place had heat and seats. But then, our pitiful adventurous souls caused us to look up under 21 clubs on our iPhones, and like fools we decided to brave the night to find a new venue.
I think it was even colder then.
To make a long story short, we stomped all the way across town -- again -- and finally found a bar/club called "Say Wha?" that Allen Ginsberg had apparently frequented. We were super excited, got our seats... and then were told that if we were not over 21 alcohol drinkers we had to pay twenty dollars if we wanted to stay there and listen to Jamaican renditions of Usher's OMG. This was much more than the cover charge of Fat Cat ($3) and the cover charge told to us on the Say Wha? website ($10). We decided it was time to go.
We ended the night on my bed, watching the Office on television while my roommate slept beneath us. Though our night of grown up partying never really got underway, I would still say that last night was a success. I got to walk around the West Village for the first time, go to a club where Allen Ginsberg apparently listened to crappy Jamaican music (really, I sort of doubt that), and I found another person who loves Disney movies as much as I do. What else can one ask for in a night out? It was well worth the Hypothermia. Probably.
I found this out yesterday night. I texted Rachel, saying that it was our first Friday night in New York and we should probably do something since we're young and fabulous. Or something along those lines. Anyway, she agreed (once she woke up from the very popular College Afternoon Nap) and we chose to meet on 3rd Avenue and 8th Street. This was a mistake. Let me tell you a little something about New York - if you travel on the same street for a while, at certain points it will be called something else. This is the case with 8th Street and maybe even 3rd Avenue (I don't know, I don't remember things) at the exact place where we wanted to meet. So for a few extra minutes, Rachel was left in the cold while I walked back and forth trying to figure out where my GPS was telling me to go.
But eventually I found her. We were very excited about the grand adventure we were about to undertake and quickly looked up a jazz club that my roommate had suggested while huddling inside a restaurant pretending to look at drinks. It turned out that the jazz club was on the west side of Manhattan. Since subways are hard to figure out, we decided to walk there.
It was a very enlightening trip. Our conversation resembled our first one:
Rachel: "You just made a Hercules reference! I'm so glad I met you! I love Hercules!"
Alison: "You love Hercules?!"
Rachel: "Yeah, I love Disney Movies!"
Alison: "IUCHXIOAB:WOIAUOWIHK)(^^&E%$@!!!!"
(In case you were wondering, that's the word for pure excitement.)
Also, in case anyone was wondering, Rachel was super impressed by my plan to be all the female Disney characters in order of appearance. I am finally getting the admiration that I deserve for my commitment to Classic Disney. Thank you Rachel.
In any case, although our conversation was super exciting (and involved many more topics than just Disney movies, I promise) it was super duper cold and evil outside and it was a long, long walk. By the time we hit the Hudson River, we knew we'd overshot our destination. Rachel, who was leading our small parade of adventure, felt bad for leading us astray. I assured her that though we were not at our destination, we were much closer than we would have been if I was leading the troops.
So we doubled back. In the cold. We finally found The Fat Cat and could see the warm interior full of checkers and jazz. We were so excited - our first real club.
Bouncer: "We need to see some identification confirming that you're over 21."
Alison: "Ah... we're... not..."
Bouncer: *shakes head with a disgusted look on his face*
Back into the blustery (VERY blustery) cold we went, still optimistic about the possibilities the night held. We stopped for soda/water at a tiny restaurant (called Two Boots because it was a mixture of Italian and Louisiana style food. Get it? Cause both places are shaped like boots?) and decided we were in heaven as long as this place had heat and seats. But then, our pitiful adventurous souls caused us to look up under 21 clubs on our iPhones, and like fools we decided to brave the night to find a new venue.
I think it was even colder then.
To make a long story short, we stomped all the way across town -- again -- and finally found a bar/club called "Say Wha?" that Allen Ginsberg had apparently frequented. We were super excited, got our seats... and then were told that if we were not over 21 alcohol drinkers we had to pay twenty dollars if we wanted to stay there and listen to Jamaican renditions of Usher's OMG. This was much more than the cover charge of Fat Cat ($3) and the cover charge told to us on the Say Wha? website ($10). We decided it was time to go.
We ended the night on my bed, watching the Office on television while my roommate slept beneath us. Though our night of grown up partying never really got underway, I would still say that last night was a success. I got to walk around the West Village for the first time, go to a club where Allen Ginsberg apparently listened to crappy Jamaican music (really, I sort of doubt that), and I found another person who loves Disney movies as much as I do. What else can one ask for in a night out? It was well worth the Hypothermia. Probably.
Friday, January 21, 2011
New Friend
I made a friend today. Her name is Rachel (not to be confused with the first Rachel I met here, the one with the shaved head who turned out to be a Philosophy professor) and our first meeting can basically be summarized as this:
"I like to read!"
"No way! I like to read!"
"You like books?!"
"I love books!!"
"LET'S BE FRIENDS!!"
And now I have someone to go to bookstores and libraries with. Are these the wild years of my youth? The answer is: Yes.
"I like to read!"
"No way! I like to read!"
"You like books?!"
"I love books!!"
"LET'S BE FRIENDS!!"
And now I have someone to go to bookstores and libraries with. Are these the wild years of my youth? The answer is: Yes.
Adulthood
It looks like my plan to be a responsible adult is already falling through.
I cut it pretty close getting to my orientation this morning, partly because I didn't want to get out of bed and partly because I had to wander around Washington Square Park five times before I could find my building. It was all very exhausting. As soon as I got back I had to take a long nap. Which subsequently almost made me late for the next part of orientation because I didn't want to get out of my bed. Again.
I also planned to be a neat and clean and organized adult. That hasn't exactly happened yet. My desk is pretty much coated in hats and scarves and gloves and anything else I threw on there that didn't quite make it to the trash can on the other side of the room.
But I did go to the gym the other day! They almost didn't let me in because I wasn't registered for classes yet (what a silly rule... how could I not be a student if I have a pass?) but I went! AND I exercised! Like a responsible adult! (True, the whole reason I went was because my roommate was going, but I can't do adult things all on my own, can I?)
I cut it pretty close getting to my orientation this morning, partly because I didn't want to get out of bed and partly because I had to wander around Washington Square Park five times before I could find my building. It was all very exhausting. As soon as I got back I had to take a long nap. Which subsequently almost made me late for the next part of orientation because I didn't want to get out of my bed. Again.
I also planned to be a neat and clean and organized adult. That hasn't exactly happened yet. My desk is pretty much coated in hats and scarves and gloves and anything else I threw on there that didn't quite make it to the trash can on the other side of the room.
But I did go to the gym the other day! They almost didn't let me in because I wasn't registered for classes yet (what a silly rule... how could I not be a student if I have a pass?) but I went! AND I exercised! Like a responsible adult! (True, the whole reason I went was because my roommate was going, but I can't do adult things all on my own, can I?)
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Good News! (Cigarette Juice)
Today was much better. I got to sit in a classroom and listen to what NYU is all about, the classes I have to take, etc. Which was nice. I got to fail a Spanish placement test and write a strange essay about my "struggles and triumphs with the English language." Hopefully I did what they expected me to. It was sort of hard to tell.
But the best part was getting to meet people. There were no doors, so they couldn't hide from me when I tried to talk to them. And - surprise surprise - they weren't opposed to talking to me! I didn't even have to bring them brownies or knock on anything. It was pretty exciting.
But the best part was getting to meet people. There were no doors, so they couldn't hide from me when I tried to talk to them. And - surprise surprise - they weren't opposed to talking to me! I didn't even have to bring them brownies or knock on anything. It was pretty exciting.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Loneliness
Oh, blog. There's so little to do when you don't have anyone to talk to. Aside from roaming the city, trying to look like I have a place to go, I haven't been able to do anything of value with my time here. Granted, it's only been two days, but if I want to become The Me I'm Meant To Be while in New York, I feel like I have to get cracking and get myself out there!
But I digress. I did have a pretty nice meeting with a boy who went to my high school. He was a year older, but he took a year off before college (a wise choice) and is now a theatre major in the Tish school. Which is pretty amazing. I was intimidated by how mature he was. He could go on and on about his favorite plays and playwrights. I did a lot of hemming and hawing to make it seem like I was familiar with his theatrical favorites. He seemed so driven, so focused. He knew what he wanted to be and how to get there. His schedule was filled with activities that immerse him in what he loves the most. And I, I'm just floating along. As I always have been. Grabbing at whatever seems most promising without a real goal in mind. Can one ever become great this way? Or am I destined to stumble through life without meaning, without eventual finality and accomplishment? I'm not sure. But I know that I have to make SOMETHING of my life, if only to ensure that my final moments will be spent with a smile on my face, remembering all the great things I've done and contributions I've made to the world at large, instead of with the bitter tears of a life that could have been useful but was not.
Anyway, back to my day. It was mostly spent inside my cell-like room, shifting positions only when I became too stiff and uncomfortable to remain as I was. My roommate breezed in and out, reminding me of what I wish I was - a real New Yorker with real New York things to do. But instead I sat inside and watched Adventure Time and Hawaii Five-0.
Finally around 7:00 I became fed up with my room and bundled up to go out. The streets are so different at night, the inky night air shot through with zaps of light from colorful signs down the street and pools of soft luminescence from streetlights above. You're never truly in the dark in New York. There's always a light only a few steps away.
I couldn't get myself to go into any of the shops today. I always feel like I'm imposing, especially if I'm not planning on buying anything. The shopkeepers look up so hopeful, assessing your buying ability with their eyes. Poor things. I wonder if they can tell how poor I am just by looking at me. I swear the man at the restaurant today knew I was going to order the cheapest thing on the menu. I could almost hear him sigh when I told him, "Water is fine, thank you." Tonight I trotted along with my Vanity Fair under my arm, completely intending to stop somewhere for dinner (my ill timing resulted in the dining halls being closed before I even left my room tonight.) However, every time I locked eyes with someone inside a pub or cafe, I kept moving on. For all my wishing I had friends, I was shy about becoming a part, even a footnote, in another New Yorker's life. Well, tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I will not spend part of the night reading an article on Julian Assange by the light of a streetlamp in Washington Square Park. Tomorrow will be different because tomorrow I have orientation. Tomorrow, I will talk to people. Tomorrow, I will make friends.
But I digress. I did have a pretty nice meeting with a boy who went to my high school. He was a year older, but he took a year off before college (a wise choice) and is now a theatre major in the Tish school. Which is pretty amazing. I was intimidated by how mature he was. He could go on and on about his favorite plays and playwrights. I did a lot of hemming and hawing to make it seem like I was familiar with his theatrical favorites. He seemed so driven, so focused. He knew what he wanted to be and how to get there. His schedule was filled with activities that immerse him in what he loves the most. And I, I'm just floating along. As I always have been. Grabbing at whatever seems most promising without a real goal in mind. Can one ever become great this way? Or am I destined to stumble through life without meaning, without eventual finality and accomplishment? I'm not sure. But I know that I have to make SOMETHING of my life, if only to ensure that my final moments will be spent with a smile on my face, remembering all the great things I've done and contributions I've made to the world at large, instead of with the bitter tears of a life that could have been useful but was not.
Anyway, back to my day. It was mostly spent inside my cell-like room, shifting positions only when I became too stiff and uncomfortable to remain as I was. My roommate breezed in and out, reminding me of what I wish I was - a real New Yorker with real New York things to do. But instead I sat inside and watched Adventure Time and Hawaii Five-0.
Finally around 7:00 I became fed up with my room and bundled up to go out. The streets are so different at night, the inky night air shot through with zaps of light from colorful signs down the street and pools of soft luminescence from streetlights above. You're never truly in the dark in New York. There's always a light only a few steps away.
I couldn't get myself to go into any of the shops today. I always feel like I'm imposing, especially if I'm not planning on buying anything. The shopkeepers look up so hopeful, assessing your buying ability with their eyes. Poor things. I wonder if they can tell how poor I am just by looking at me. I swear the man at the restaurant today knew I was going to order the cheapest thing on the menu. I could almost hear him sigh when I told him, "Water is fine, thank you." Tonight I trotted along with my Vanity Fair under my arm, completely intending to stop somewhere for dinner (my ill timing resulted in the dining halls being closed before I even left my room tonight.) However, every time I locked eyes with someone inside a pub or cafe, I kept moving on. For all my wishing I had friends, I was shy about becoming a part, even a footnote, in another New Yorker's life. Well, tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I will not spend part of the night reading an article on Julian Assange by the light of a streetlamp in Washington Square Park. Tomorrow will be different because tomorrow I have orientation. Tomorrow, I will talk to people. Tomorrow, I will make friends.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
A New New Yorker
Two days ago I arrived in New York City, a transfer to New York University. Yesterday my parents left and I, a few days shy of twenty, marked this as the true beginning of my ascent to adulthood. Now I am truly on my own, living in a busy city in the REAL WORLD (as opposed to the candy-coated suburbs I've lived in for the first two decades of my life.) But I think it's a bit too early to call it a rip-roaring success. You see, I have very few acquaintances in New York and even fewer friends, so my first day (today) with no parents about mostly involved me getting up at noon, sloshing through the freezing rain to the NYU ID office, and sloshing happily through the streets until the water soaked all the way through to my underwear. After that, I arrived home to 2nd street only to find that my newly acquired NYU ID did not work the way an NYU ID should. Which is a pity because, unlike the pictures on all other forms of identification I own, I thought I looked pretty good in my photo. But, the photo gods couldn't let me have this one, and tomorrow I have to slosh back to the NYU ID office to get a new one. Again.
I wouldn't mind being holed up in my dorm room so much if the kids in the other dorms would come out and talk to me. But, alas, I guess there's some rule here in New York that you don't open your door to strangers, because when I knock on the steel doors of my new neighbors with homemade brownies in hand and a smile on my face, nobody will open up and take my damn baked goods. I'm ok with limited human interaction, but NO human interaction can get a girl down. Still, I can't complain. I'm (hopefully) meeting someone from my high school tomorrow. And I have an entire batch of brownies all to myself.
I wouldn't mind being holed up in my dorm room so much if the kids in the other dorms would come out and talk to me. But, alas, I guess there's some rule here in New York that you don't open your door to strangers, because when I knock on the steel doors of my new neighbors with homemade brownies in hand and a smile on my face, nobody will open up and take my damn baked goods. I'm ok with limited human interaction, but NO human interaction can get a girl down. Still, I can't complain. I'm (hopefully) meeting someone from my high school tomorrow. And I have an entire batch of brownies all to myself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)