Happy Fourth of July

Audio

He woke me up with a start when his arm around me started to twitch. Then his other and his chest. His eyes flickered. It reminded me of my dog starting and whimpering in his sleep as he chases imaginary rabbits. Then it got more violent and my mind crashes into the thought… he’s a Marine. I know what he’s thinking even before his hand starts slapping his his chest and thigh as he murmurs, “Where’s the magazine, where’s the magazine…” I’m absolutely shattered. No debate, no documentary, no news story has hit me harder than this. He’s 24 years old. I don’t know if I should wake him, I’m at a complete loss. Without thinking I take his searching hand and I hold it. I feel my face getting hot. A few hours ago I didn’t know this man from Adam, I don’t even remember his name. But a tear rolls down my cheek as I witness this unconscious and overwhelmingly intimate and horrible moment. His movements start to back down to twitches and eventually his eyes flutter open. He snaps his head back and forth and looks at me, lost.

“What day is it?”

“Sunday… Sunday morning? The 6^th?”

He looks at his watch, “July.” He lays back and shakes his head softly whispering to himself, “It was real.” After a few moments he gets up and stares at something on his dresser. He picks up a photo and tosses it next to me on the bed. I pick it up and see him arm and arm with another guy about his age. He mutters an explanation, seemingly to me, but it’s very quiet and bitter. “He was my best friend in the world. He shot out like a bottle rocket.” A few moments of silence. He picks up the picture and replaces it on the dresser, then he comes and lays back down next to me. “I was driving.”

He alternates between staring at the ceiling and looking into my eyes. I stare back and I place my hand on his sandpaper cheek. I can tell his heart is still racing. I see his pulse barreling through his neck. “I don’t want to sleep.” He says softly, but firmly. I nod and I hush him with a kiss.

We fuck twice. It’s hard and fast and he does fall asleep again, but sleeps like a log. I drift away eventually as well. When we awake later he apologizes over and over. I shouldn’t have had to see that. I shouldn’t have had to see that. I just lay my head on his chest and don’t say anything, I can’t really. It would all seem hollow. He puts his arms around me and as we both start to drift off yet again. He says under his breath, “Any other girl would’ve ran away.”

Eventually after who knows how long of alternating light sleep and moments of fooling around he notices his watch and shoots up. Then falls back down on the bed, defeated. “I have a flight in two hours.”

I take my queue and start to get dressed. He lays there for awhile, but eventually staggers up and pulls on some clothes as well. As I’m putting on my shoes he sits next to me on the bed and says to the floor, “I hate North Carolina.” I coo empathetically. But what else can I do? The night is over. In two hours he’ll be flying there. In two days he’ll be back at camp. In two months he’ll be back in Iraq. Back at the bar he said it’s his last tour and he’s out. All I can think is, “hopefully.”

He walks me to the door. We say nothing and he kisses me on the forehead.

My day on the train

Audio! (Apologies on the sound.  I left my fan on like a pussy.)

This is a mushy mush of three different subway inspired rants.  Enjoy.

I have a great disdain for yarmulkes. Again, AGAIN I must express that I am not anti-semitic. But just imagine seeing someone very attractive walking down the street then they unzip their hoodie to reveal a shirt that says “I will never fuck you. In fact, you may as well consider myself a eunuch, because you have no chance.” It’s kind of buzz kill. It’s even worse than a wedding ring. They aren’t entirely and completely off limits if your morals will allow. And with our divorce rate you don’t even have to settle with being the secret floozy. Just wait. A wedding ring says, “You have at least a fifty percent chance of fucking me in the future.” But no. A yarmulke says, “I’m not just Jewish by heritage. I don’t just have cute dark hair and a come hither nose. No. I don’t eat fucking shrimp. I make a whole holiday dinner about eating with my invisible friend. And I don’t. Date. Outside my religion.” Fuck you jews.

But no. Other than hating jews on the subway I often find myself looking at what everyone’s wearing. Sometimes I wonder where I get off criticizing people’s fashion, in my head… I’m not a total dick, when I’m such an avid t-shirt and jeans girl myself. It seems a little hypocritical. But then I remind myself that just because you have they eye, doesn’t mean you have the body, wallet and time. Okay, take it back. I must be a dick, that was certainly a dick thing to say… I’m alright with hat I think. Regardless of guilt or snobbery, if you’re entering the summer wearing a brown dress with a brown jacket with a brow bag, brown fucking shoes and to top it all off the mousey brown hair of your sadly misguided genetics? Then your wallet, body and time have gone to waste, girly. There was one stripe of turquoise running down the line of the dress like a lost string of taffy being stretched through Wonka’s frothy chocolate river. But that’s only a reprieve on the dress designer part and not the uninspired automaton who is running under the, mistaken, impression that she can dress herself in the morning.

In defense of this catty diatribe, I really only give such thought to those who are trying. There’s a language in fashion and so often the only words it knows how to speak in human is, “I think I’m better than you.” Followed closely by, “I cost way to fucking much.” I’m not going to mentally berate the middle aged woman in her stretch waist jean capris and oversized Tweety bird t-shirt. She’s doing her thing and that’s fine with me. I merely match condescension with condescension.

While we’re on the subject. Men. If you ever find yourself in the position of being successful and requiring a suit of some kind remember this. On par with ol’ Augustus Gloop over here is the high powered business men/lawyer/executive/insert corporate title here who looks like he’s playing dress up in his daddy’s clothes. Tailors. Please!

Fashion criticism aside, a ride on the train generally has no shortage of life lessons. A few seats away from me there’s a man, demonstrating the importance of life’s little pleasures. He’s jovially munches on his breakfast. The look on his face is as if that small brown paper sack holds his dearest treasures. And each time his hand dips within it and pulls out a luscious chunk of blueberry bagel slathered in cream cheese! It’s a triumph! A triumph that is deposited into his grinning maw and chewed ever so gingerly. I would hazard a guess that half the people on this train have not experienced such jubilance in weeks as this man enjoys as part of his daily morning ritual. He then retrieves from his crinkled depths a plastic cup of frothy orange. He sucks it down like a wanderer through the desert coming upon a juicy oasis. Just like that the meal is finished. The bag is empty, but the memories remain with him as he settles back into his seat with a contented sigh. Is this the happiest moment of his day or does he attack all activities in his life with such fervor? I might be forced to guess the former because the man’s face has now fallen into line with the other work week drones. Must’ve been a good fucking bagel.

Still kickin’

Audio!

The weekend looms near. I haven’t even had the chance to explain why that makes me just a little bit nervous. It’s a good story. But another obvious reason is the paltry sum of bills in my wallet that comprises the only money I have to last me till next Friday. The rest remains under lock and key for upcoming bills. Away in my bank account. Bills that I will only be able to cover by the skin of my teeth mind you. And it’s not just my happy beer money that’s in my wallet. No this needs to cover groceries and any other household expense that comes along (Such as… Oh shit running low on shampoo… and god damn I need to do laundry.) Certainly I’ve had moments. Moments where I feel that miniature population of me’s running the brain inside my head gets a little restless. Tired of manning that super computer of impulses and logic that I seem to ignore no matter how hard they try to steer me the right way. Yes the chief administrator of levers in sector 72 of my brain he’s… he’s just lost it entirely. He’s pounding on the inside of my skull as I look worriedly over my budget sprawled across an excel spreadsheet. He’s screaming what are you DOING? Meanwhile, my left eye hasn’t blinked in 3 hours since he abandoned his post.

I laid in bed last night, and by bed I mean mattress. More really… it’s a mat. A mat on the floor. My new guitar, bought on credit, laying on my right side. A small fan from my roommate blowing on me on the left (Air Conditioning? Ha!) I thought about the numbers I’d just stretched and pushed so that I would be able to pay rent come July 1^st. I thought about the realization I’d made that on the salary I just accepted Monday, it wouldn’t be much better next month. Or the month after that. And so on and so forth. And as I’m prone to do my brain began to crunch the possibilities. Moving home was one. Make no assumptions about what sort of viability it had in my mind though, even in the middle of the night; yet, I have to admit that there was a small thought of, “Wow. How much easier would it be to be free of a few bills while I pay down my debt.” My debt is from previous moves by the way. When you’re job hunting for a month in a new area those things can kinda creep up on you.

Yet, every time I find myself walking the streets of this city my heart breaks. I stroll through some of my favorite books and movies everyday here. I’m fulfilling a childhood dream.

So please don’t misconstrue any of this as complaining. My struggles are generally of my own design. I don’t a grudge for becoming a New York transplant stereotype. It’s perfect. Would I be ever so much happier if I was making more money? Living in a place of my own drinking chilled Pellegrino, stroking the head of my fuzzy lap dog. Well. Maybe. I do love pretentious water and ugly dogs. But I’m pretty happy being a kid, being stupid, being a bit of a rat. That’d explain why I keep moving whenever I start to get settled anywhere. And hey, there’s not much else for a 22 year old to do, unless I’d rather just start storing up my resentment for life right now. I certainly don’t want it to be in short supply when my hair starts turning grey, it’s all I’ll have to hold onto.

So the plan is to keep on hanging on. Maybe I’ll get a second job. Something nice and decent. Or maybe not so decent. Whatever works. Or maybe I’ll find a way to cut my grocery bill further and spend a couple more hours out on Saturday night drinking a couple more beers to forget about that silly debt thing. But basically… we’ll see how it all pans out. I’m still here. Still kickin’.

SWF–LTRs need not apply

Audio!!

Alright. While I decide what exactly I’m going to share about this weekend without getting myself into trouble, I’ll bring you something from I believe Friday night. I didn’t get the chance to post or record it that night, but I’ve decided to read it as is. Some of this will seem very ironic soon. But without any further ado….

Let’s not beat around the bush anymore. I don’t think it’s self-defeating psychology that makes me think I ruined my last relationship. It’s logic. I did. Here’s to me, as I drink my 4^th beer of the day at quarter to six. That’s glamour right there. And that’s why this is the last beer I’ll drink for the next 30 days, I’ve made that promise to myself. My family tree has a history riddled with addiction, and because the studies of the genealogy for such traits are still hazy, I’d like to play it on the safe side. Addictions are way out of my budget.

But seriously. Mark this as my first, and hopefully last, relationship issue post. Can I admit something? I’m an incredibly amiable, accommodating and overall nice person. I have an extremely active guilt complex and most of my actions run by that hazy code of ethics that I don’t like to fuck people over. Most. I do have my breaking points.

But the problem is that once I’ve reached that lovey dovey comfort zone? The gloves come off and I turn into a selfish beast. Here’s just a few beats of what it’s like to be with me when we’re in a long term relationship.

-I’m pretty lackadaisical on the chore front. I bristle at a schedule and clean things when they look physically dirty. I like to do dishes right away, because the likelihood of me ever doing a sink full of dishes is very very low. Yeah. I might use the same towel for two weeks until I realize it smells kind of stale then I’ll finally replace it. Yes. I don’t do laundry till I run out of underwear even if that means digging a dirty shirt out of the laundry basket. My rank of cleanliness is, “Does it smell or will it attract bugs?” No? Then it’s fine. So I’m basically only one small step above the average college aged male. Small step.

-I don’t cook. I actually have a rather uncanny ability with the spices, but I just don’t like doing it. Sometimes I eat out. Sometimes I have ice cream for dinner. Sometimes I just plain would rather not eat then cook, you’d be straight up surprised how often this happens. I really should be thinner, but refer to the ice cream for dinner part I suppose.

-I do make amazing hot wings. Just want to throw that out there.

-I’m selfish. I just truly am. I work by logic, so if you disagree with me and can’t make an argument for your side that doesn’t include emotions I’m probably just going to think you’re stupid and I’m right. Therefore I’m justified in acting how I want to and ignoring you.

-On the other side of the coin if you argue me and have superior logic, I will apologize and be gracious about it. I have no problems with pride when it comes to apologizing and will readily accept that I’m wrong if proven so.

-I love sex. I truly do. But the problem is I want it when you don’t. Then if you try to get frisky while I’m falling asleep I will bite your head off. I’ve long since chosen sleep over sex. Catch me in the morning. Catch me at lunch time. Catch me while we’re going fucking grocery shopping. I’m down. Just do not try to wake me up for sex.

-I will make fun of your drinking. I love drinking and do so like a fish. You are a pussy and there is no denying this. I will make fun of you in public if you aren’t keeping up. It’s just the way of the world.

-I need my alone time. I just do. I have to watch porn sometimes. I have to sing jazz sometimes. I have to dance around to show tunes sometimes. The amount of what I will do around you, depends on you. But either way I NEED MY ALONE TIME.

-Contradictorily, I can be incredibly needy. If I’m sad I may need some human blanket time. I may need some “tell me I’m pretty” time. I may need some hold me while I’m crying for no discernable reason time.

-I don’t have this unquenchable need to go out everyday. You may even go so far as to call me a “homebody”. Sure I have shit I like to do. But that requires all this like… showering… and dressing? That’s silly. Can’t we just snuggle on the couch and watch a movie? Please? No? Fuck you.

-I sing constantly. I will make songs up about our furniture. I will make songs up about the weather. I will make songs about you and I will make songs about me. Sometimes I will insult you by song, but it will surely be a cheery tune.

-I reserve sexy dancing time for when I’m alone or potentially at a club (but refer to the homebody comment to know how often THAT happens). The dancing that you will generally be privy to is my over the top ridiculous dancing. The secret is finding one amusing move and just doing it over. And over. And over. I pull a lot of influences from the 80’s and early 90’s. The running man was huge for me. But usually they are of my own absurd design.

-I have to give myself some credit. If you do get out of the house I will have a damn good time. Just. You know. Good luck on that. (though NY and it’s incredibly convenient transportation has helped a great deal.)

-If you like dumb movies prepare for me to bogart the television, because my tastes are clearly superior. And if you want to watch anything besides Office/30rock/lost on Thursday you’re fucking out of luck man. I will physically fight you.

-I get to read Walking Dead first. Sorry that’s how it works.

-I may decide to go to bed at 3am. Maybe 5am. Maybe 9pm. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. These things just happen.

-I cry at all movies and try to hide the fact. Don’t look at me towards the end of the movie. If you do you better damn well be crying too. I’ve actually never known a man to cry, so that would impress me to the nth degree. But I’m not holding out hope on that one.

-I’m to immature to take care of pets. I’ve come to realize this. I’m like the child who wants one so badly, but then when you get them you end up always having to walk them and pick up the poop. But if they ever get sick inside or chew anything up I will take care of it. That’s the silent agreement.

-I’m horrible with children. I’m sorry. I’ve long since decided that I will probably never have them. I’ve considered adoption or fostering, because I love those smart as a whip kids and wouldn’t mind having one of them around to mentor. But the thought of a baby scares me beyond belief.

-I love music. You will either have to put up with my music, or put up with me in headphones. One or the other.

-I have little to no interest in sports. You can watch your crap, that’s fine. I just won’t be around to see it unless it includes soccer or occasionally baseball.

-Some weekends I will want to be out the entire time. Some weekends I will lay in bed reading till 5pm.

This is just a small taste.

I will be alone forever won’t I?

What are you doing?

Audio!!

Well everyone. I got the job. Yes the job with the raise, the office with a view, across the street from Madison Square Garden, the sleep in since it starts at 9, but party because it still gets off at 5 because we get an hour paid lunch, not for profit, music industry magical dream job. That job. I have to admit while I was nervous, I’ve felt on a fucking roll. With the apartment I thought, “This is to good to be true, I’m to in love with it… there’s no way this will work out.” Yet, it did. So when this job came around I thought, “This is to good to be true, I’m to in love with it… but hey it worked for the apartment so I bet it’s gonna fucking work here. “ And it did.

So I sit here in my room with the sun streaming in after two days of rain, a cool breeze playing over my cheek bringing in the fresh smell of a baptized city that I love. I’m living in an ideal.

Yet, as is way of troubled humans, all the pieces aren’t in place. I’m a transplant to this perfect situation. I feel like I’ve entered a pristine white living room through the fireplace and I’m covered in my black sooty baggage. I’m not perfect, I’m not pristine, I’m the square peg and my life is the circle hole.

I know that’s not entirely fair. The idea of luck goes against my personal philosophy. I figured all the dirty details of my move. I got an apartment because I was diligent in my search. I got a job because I’ve cultivated a decent resume, I have good skills, work hard and I killed my interview. There was no magical force or omniscient being handing these things to me. I did it myself. Even still it’s hard to shake the undeserving feeling and I think a large reason why is because I’ve been setting all my ducks in a row outside of myself while my interior is dwindling and deteriorating.

I think I’ve failed if I feel like I need to drink a few beers before I can be myself. I’ve failed if I’m more worried about developing projects for the approval of my peers then for the purpose of actually improving my skills. I’ve failed if when listening to great music I sometimes actually get sad because I’ve squandered my own abilities. I. Have. Failed. If when I lay down at night I don’t have a feeling of satisfaction, but am worried to finally be alone with my thoughts.

So I’m developing some goals, some personal goals. Not to change myself, but to shed the excess that I’ve been piling on for the all the wrong reasons. To get back to who I want to be and who it is that makes me happy when I lay down at night. So, keep your eye out for it.

And don’t me wrong, I’m grateful and I’m incredibly happy. I just don’t want to fall and I don’t want to fail. I want to make the most of this momentum to make the most of myself.

PS - I’d be remiss to not mention dear Graeme who planted the seed for me earlier this week. Definitely a clear inspiration.

Thanks Graeme.

Oh so awkward…

Audio!!

Life occasionally just seems likes a series of awkward moments. Like now where I was making small talk with someone and I got in response that smiling face of clearly I didn’t hear what you just said, but I don’t want to ask you to repeat yourself so I’ll pretend i heard and give a generic response. Problem being I recognized this face and because I was to tired to either repeat myself or call him out,I in turn had to pretend like I accepted his response as valid. How absurd would it have been if, in turn, he caught the fakeness of my response as well, but again out of laziness, just returned to his seat. Amusing to think about.

I’m grateful for these moments. They’re the ultimate plane leveler. They provide me with an odd sense of satisfaction that we are all just bumbling about on this crazy little rock person as clueless and odd as the next. It’s what makes us human.

I’ve been wishing I talked more at length about my impressions on New York, and this topic is a perfect example. Drugstores aside, it’s very infrequent that you happen upon chains in the city, stores or restaurants. You don’t go down to the nearest Raleighs or Jewel or Albertsons for your groceries, you’re much more likely to hit up some odd local owned shop with an assortment of foreign goods and hispanics stocking fruit 24/7. Likewise for restaraunts.

The little hole in the wall type eateries just spill from every crack and corner. And oh how many times I’ve been humbled meandering into a shop that has no prices, no menu, no English speaking employees; just pointing, smiling and hoping to god I have enough cash. In short it’s an absolute nightmare for someone of my personality, on the shy side and abysmally frugal (I plan my budget and my purchases with a iron fist). And depending on the part of town you’re in you may find the other side of the coin, where you go into a rather plan looking establishment only to find that soda and noodle dish you’re sipping is 25 dollars. You’re down to your last 20. And no. They don’t take card.

That type of calling you awkward, I have to admit… just as enjoyable. I plan my entire life to a T to avoid mistakes. I’m terrified of being publicly embarrassed. I would consider this to be one of my largest assets and one of my largest flaws. I have an extremely keen ability to get out of tight spots or solve impossible issues. My mind, abysmally stuck in logic mode, avoids that freaking out stage and thinks immediately says: Assess and Act. I’ll cry and freak out later, once I’ve got a plan. Yet, where does spontaneity fall into a rigid problem/solution logic center? Let’s go ahead and take that question out of the rhetorical and admit… It doesn’t. So these moments. Not having enough change to dry your laundry. Tripping on the stairs in the subway station. Spilling coffee on your shirt. As terrifying as they are, these moments keep my little world spinning.

Let me throw a little more New York talk in here. Walking around the city was a very odd experience for me. You see, it was the first time I’d been here; yet, it was far from the first time I’d seen New York. Like most people in the US I’ve been eating a steady diet of New York since I was a young tot. Every major form of media holds NY in regard as the quintessential American city and it’s either been the site of, or mimicked in sets, for countless movies, shows, music videos, cartoons, comics, video games and any other media known to the American man.

The Subway. Ohhh the Subways I knew all to well. I’d killed mobsters in Max Payne in the subway. I’d been attacked by Lickers in Resident Evil 2 in the subway. I’d been mercilessly followed by eerie floating undeads in Silent Hill 4 in the subway. Oh I knew the subways. And to be truthful? Since these were my reference points? They freaked me the fuck out. You walk down into this cold, dimly lit area with dark tunnels stretching to nowhere on every side of you. If you get the courage to step on one, be prepared to be swallowed up into that dark, but it gets broken up every so often with haunting red or blue lights. Illuminating graffitied walls, and I imagine if you keep your eyes peeled, the bodies of unlucky or slow graffiti artists (I mean… you have to imagine right?) And truly, on a late night with a fairly empty car I still get chills as I can almost feel the sticky drool of a terrifying Umbrella Corp experiment dripping down onto me.

So maybe I’m alone in this subway thing. I’m prepared to accept that fact and it was kind a huge tangent anyway. I’m prepared to accept that as well.

I have, on occasion, thought that maybe this wasn’t the best idea. I know I wanted space, I wanted something new and I wanted to take a stab at a dream. But is throwing myself into a situation with no friends, really the way to go? Or maybe it was the perfect idea, sometimes you just have to jump in the deep end. Really I don’t know. And that’s the only thing I can be sure of, because I damn well need to stop pretending I have any sort of handle on things or really know where I’m going or what I’m doing. That will come. And that’s okay.

King Leer

Audio!!

I know I’ve described to some, though possibly not all, about the leering phenomena that exists here in New York. Until recently I lived in Kensington, which is a couple miles south of here and significantly more ethnically diverse. And somehow there is a fair amount of residents that can afford to just sit on the streets outside of shops. So when a young lady, such as myself, steps out of a store she may find herself between two creepy old Indian men. The one of the left who says, “Nice. Very Nice.” And the one on the right who says “Yes I like that.” I can say wholeheartedly that this was the most jarring thing I had to deal with in my move. Hands down. It’s not talked about and it’s is just entirely out of my realm of experience until now.

Other than the comments there are a few other things that may happen. Staring. Just. Constant. Staring. Not to be deterred by subtle gestures of non-interest. Oh no. But then they add something particularly classy. Start with a stare and then add in lip licking. I shudder to think of it.

Now I don’t mean to isolate the Indians. It can probably be attributed to a cultural difference, because it’s predominantly common in first generation Indians, while many Indian-Americans clearly know what’s what and act with class. In fact there’s been a few who I’ve just wished would turn into their lewder counterparts, because damn there’s some good looking Indian males around. And I’ve had my share with Hispanics (like that nice fellow who saw fit to escort me the half mile to my train station) and blacks (Particularly in Queens. Oh the smile I got from a dude with a grill today.) But truly they just go above and beyond any other group.

Finally I reached a breaking point. Out for drinks after the first day of Comic con an Indian fellow introduced himself to me. I was polite but disinterested so he proceded to sit in the both next to ours and stare at me. He had intermitten visitors, but whenever they would leave he would continue to stare at me, and if I ever looked over he’d wink and mouth words that I didn’t bother to interpret. I gesture for him to come over, he quickly obliges and leans over the table where I whisper to him, “If you don’t stop staring at me I will rip your balls off.” Mark that day on your calendar folks, because that was the first time I got something to work! He smiled. Walked away. And not a glimpse of him for the rest of the night.

And that is how my crusade started. Clearly this was a cultural difference and I just needed to let them know, one at a time, that this is not, in fact, the way to make an American woman feel special. I felt like I’ve done a real service in my short time in Kensington. But now I live in Park Slope and young, attractive and well off men (no matter their race) just don’t seem to have the same leering tendency. Luckily I work in Queens and also ride the subway on a regular basis. New York’s little traveling pie chart. So I still have my run ins.

Truly this is the only reason I wrote this post. A couple days ago I had one such run in. I was sitting innocently looking at my feet or something equally innocuous when we come to a stop and very large. Large. Man walks on and sits across from me. Because I have that just ridiculous tendency to be nice I look up and smile. Oh no. How am I still making this rookie mistake? That is his in. He returns with that pedophile, heavy on the creep smile. But his bulking demeanor makes him look similar to a large brown toad in a haggard wife beater. With this visual in mind I can’t whipe the smile off my face, but I break eye contact post haste and stare at a very interesting ad for the next five minutes.

I cant’ help but check back in. The dude. Still smiling looks back at me and his greasy lips part as his large wet cow tongue veeery slowly makes it’s way around his lips, grazing against his ill formed and scratchy mustache. I just… I couldn’t help it. I burst into smile. Okay. Few more minutes and the man is just clearly staring at my crotch. I start to get fairly uncomfortable. But then we meet eyes again and… again with the ever so slow mouth licking. I start to laugh. Who is this giant old toad? Is he in on the joke or does their really exist someone this vile and strange?? I laugh until my stop where I shake my head as I get off. Oh boy.

So there’s your bite of New York for today.

Ramblings and Jews

Audio!!

I feel like… I should have something to… do. But I’m at a relative loss.

I mean I have my projects. I’ve finished the basic design for a new website for this blog, so I need to cook up the final art before I can get on with the hardcoding (and you’re going to freaking love it guys, coming soon). I’d like to be hitting a daily posting basis here. And in that vein now that I got back my tax incentive I’d like to get a snazzy new mic so you all don’t have to aurally wade through the background noise and spittle that a cheaper mic just loves to showcase. But I don’t have to do any of that. No that’s all just play time. If I wanted to go home, change into a robe and eat chicken wings while watching 5 hours of Seinfeld reruns. Well. I could do that too. Yes, exploring creative outlets in my free time will probably serve me better in the long run, but it’s free time. Free. Free to spend however I damn well please! With school, then the move, this seems almost like an entirely foreign concept to me again. I’m suspicious. I’m sitting here at my desk trying to create complicated to do lists out of thin air. I’m writing this post in hopes that it will jog my memory of some important piece of business I must attend to. But nope. Nothing.

And at this point I kind of feel like I’m bragging. A couple days ago I post about my awesome neighborhood. Today I post about free time. If I get that new job, you can probably expect a post about that. Really it’s almost broaching tactless. But god damnit, every dog has it’s day doesn’t she? I just called myself a dog. That’s cute. But you know. It’s an up, give me a few months and I’ll be wading through the shit again. Here. Here’s some consolation for your sadists out there. I’m probably going to start up school again, as soon as this fall if at all possible. And yes the new job I’m going for is full-time and is permanent. So I’ll be right back where I was in spring. Hell. But Hell in New York people! That’s a kind of hell I can go for.

I feel like I should end this on a positive note, so I wanted to make fun of Jews a little. Hey hey now. Hasidic jews. Oh. Still bad? Ah give me a break and I’ll tell you a secret. Come in a little closer. Okay. I have a thing for Jews. You see I’m naturally attracted to the basic characteristics, dark hair, dark eyes, olive complection, prominent nose. Oh yes. But then I move here and get introduced to the Hasidic community and Oh. Momma. Add on two more layers. One? The clothes. Suits and fucking hats? Love it. Two? Their complete disinterest in women. Ever girl loves a challenge, what better than to have to actually rip a person from his heritage to be able to fuck him. Come on now. And truly the religion just fascinates me. I’ve always said I have more in common with them than Christians. We both don’t beleive Jesus Christ was the son of god. That’s something we can work with right?

But that was a great bit of justification for what I truly wanted to say. They fucking crack me up. Look. I love ‘em, I’m allowed. I see one today intently reading his Torah on the subway, as they are prone to do, but what killed me is those curly side burns. He was fiddling with one as he read, pulling out that great big curl, letting go as it bounces back and repeat. A grown man with the same nervous habit as Shirley Temple. That’s good stuff.

Then another jewish fellow walks on. This guy killed me. A portly younger man with absolutely unwieldy facial hair. Not just long, completely unkempt. At least it matched the rest of him. His shirt was loose, his pants and jacket had stains and he just looked generally disheveled. And no sirs and madams. He was NOT reading the Torah. I THINK I SEE THE PROBLEM HERE SIR. Cleanliness is next to Godliness isn’t it? Is that part in the old testament? Fuck if I know, but I think they still generally like to be clean. The cherry on top was the sizable something or other hanging from his left nostril. Now as I’m looking the man over I can help but imagine the life and times of that something or other. Surely it will eventually knock loose with a cough, sneeze or rustle and due to the pure breadth and range of that beard of his… surely there it will land. And how long will it stay there dear friends? With his habits of tidyness, possibly quite some time. Surely if they allow this man in their folds they couldn’t frown to deeply on a little hanky panky with a gentile? I’ll let you know how it goes.

Now with more phelgm

Audio!!

There is little else more uncomfortable then not being able to keep your eyes open at work. It seems to be happening to me a lot lately though, but usually for good reason. It’s generally from being productive in one way or another. Whether it be socially or cleaning or organizing. Getting my act together, so to speak. Which I suppose leads to the theme of this post: being happy.

As you may or may not know I recently moved to a neighborhood in Brooklyn called Park Slope. The more time I spend walking through Park Slope, the more I fall in love with it. Head over heels really. My heart just swells bigger with every step. I want to forcefully strip the title “Happiest Place on Earth” from Disney World to return in to it’s rightful owner: Park Slope. Because if you’ve ever lived in Orlando friends? Oh dear dear. Disney World or not, the place is a pit. But here the houses are beautiful. The people are young and beautiful (but more accessible than hipster Williamsburg). The streets are lined with trees, the trees are lined with birds, the birds are singing songs to the heaven’s, because they’re on my side… they’re grateful to be in Park Slope. Am I being sappy? Overblowing and overestimating? Oh. Maybe. That’s what one does when they’re feeling happier, more optimistic and more creative then they have in months time. Fine. Completely and utterly sappy. That’s me. Add this scenery with the beautiful weather we had all weekend? Folks I am literally walking on AIR.

The best part is, finally I’m starting to feel justified in my actions. The most classic psychological fallout of a bad experience is blaming yourself. A breakup is no exception. So of course I’ve been over and over a thousand times how PERHAPS I was the sole reason of our downfall. I was selfish, I didn’t work hard enough for us. This, that and the other. And the fact of the matter is, does it matter? Not really. The relationship wasn’t working and that’s all that needs to be judged at the end of the day. So now? Now I’m happy and truly what better measure of success is there? Selfish motives or not, I made some right decisions for once. Bloody miracle that is.

Spoiler: I feel like shit

Audio!!

Okay. I had a blog written out today discussing the grand topics of why my companies president is a superior douche bag and how that relates to the meaning of life. That discourse will have to wait for another day because, friends, I am dying. This is the bit where I complain, so skip ahead if you don’t enjoy hearing about the suffering of others. I woke up this morning with a sore throat, and was a wee bit worried. But I went on with my morning frenzy. Skip ahead a couple hours and my head is in my hands at work feeling like it had been sat on by pre-subway Jarod for 6 hours while I slept. The my whole body followed suite. I’ll drop the Jared simile now lest we get a little bit lewd here. The next step was chills. And all of this was before lunch!

But all of that crap aside. There’s two things that kept me going. One: the massive amount of apartment shopping I knew I had to do after work. And two: the thought of coming home to my freezing, lumpy couch bed that I wouldn’t even be able to open up till about midnight because of my night owl roommate. Yes. These are my treats in life friends: walking up 8 flights of stairs with 4 large bags of apartment necessities all while feeling lightheaded; being rabidly hungry, but not being able to choke down even water. Sometimes you just have to stop and realize how good you have it. Get a little perspective. Throw up a little. It’ll do you good friends.