twenty-three sentences about the same fucking thing
The other night I fell into a coma after lots of wine and a two hour Oasis and Pulp sing-a-long. I'm not sure if I should be ashamed or ecstatic that this will probably be the highlight of my week.
Monday I had the worst anxiety attack of my short existence, and masterfully horrified half my roommates. Of course this is assuming I was not already frightening them with mildly OCD late-night cleanings…
I have also ended the bloody jihad I began with CitiBank. Hurray for crippling persistence.
There are an uncanny amount of mysterious bruises and small cuts on my body right now. I can't figure out where they came from, minus scratches from our lovely, nine month old black cat.
I stalked a guy around the grocery store this weekend. He bought too much pasta. Most likely lived around the corner, which most likely would make him a Pratt student, which most likely would make him gay. No dice.
Tonight, while those darling boys I live with are out in Manhattan dancing the night away, I watched tv (how the hell did NEIL POP KID get on the OC?!), cleaned my room, cut my hair,contemplated where to buy pretty clothing tomorrow.
I call Todd maybe four times a day. I miss him so that I am thisclose to buying a first class AmTrak ticket, but the ho would probably miss his train…
I smile at strangers.
I laugh too loud.
I buy more booze than food.
I scowl at pretty men.
I listen to Bowie daily.
I miss my National Geographic subscription.
I have to remind myself to breathe, but that’s nothing less than ordinary.
I am happier every hour that I live in Brooklyn.
the end.
Monday I had the worst anxiety attack of my short existence, and masterfully horrified half my roommates. Of course this is assuming I was not already frightening them with mildly OCD late-night cleanings…
I have also ended the bloody jihad I began with CitiBank. Hurray for crippling persistence.
There are an uncanny amount of mysterious bruises and small cuts on my body right now. I can't figure out where they came from, minus scratches from our lovely, nine month old black cat.
I stalked a guy around the grocery store this weekend. He bought too much pasta. Most likely lived around the corner, which most likely would make him a Pratt student, which most likely would make him gay. No dice.
Tonight, while those darling boys I live with are out in Manhattan dancing the night away, I watched tv (how the hell did NEIL POP KID get on the OC?!), cleaned my room, cut my hair,contemplated where to buy pretty clothing tomorrow.
I call Todd maybe four times a day. I miss him so that I am thisclose to buying a first class AmTrak ticket, but the ho would probably miss his train…
I smile at strangers.
I laugh too loud.
I buy more booze than food.
I scowl at pretty men.
I listen to Bowie daily.
I miss my National Geographic subscription.
I have to remind myself to breathe, but that’s nothing less than ordinary.
I am happier every hour that I live in Brooklyn.
the end.