(no subject)

Jan 06, 2009 22:45

 In a week and a half I will be in New York again. I like to pretend that means more than "I just need a fucking break." I like to pretend it means I am spontaneous, adventurous, somehow more attractive. I'm the kind of girl who knows her way around the city and knows just how much to tip the taxi drivers. I'm the kind of girl you want to curl up with at night. But I'm not. i know how far you can walk towards a moving car before your toes get flattened but that never got me anywhere. When i do that my friends gasp and call me crazy. I feel dangerous. Somehow more attractive.  I'm going to New York because I need to smell that big-city smell again. I'm going to New York because i need some time away from the comfort of my lack of a life. I need. I need. I need.  I am.

I judge how nice my day will be by the amount of hairspray I put in my hair, the amount of concealer I rub in under my eyes. My grandmother calls me from Milan and she asks me if I have scurvy. Good italian granddaughters don't move out of their parents' houses. They stay put until they're married. They don't work two jobs to pay the rent. I tell her it's a small price to pay to be a little more free. I tell her I don't have scurvy because I work at a restaurant and I can eat for free there whenever I'm hungry. Her knee still hurts when it rains.

I'm so sick right now. I bet you'd never have guessed. My throat feels like it's stuffed with cotton balls and the knots in my back feel like boulders. I don't smoke pot. I hardly even drink anymore. All I do is work and smoke too many cigarettes and listen to music and make music and pine. Oh, how I pine. I pine for the "wake me up when you do" nights and the "would I look good with a beard?" days and I'd tell him okay (but I'd lie) and oh, yes (and I'd mean it). I'm so lonely half the time. I hate it. I hate being lonely. And sometimes I think there's something desperately wrong with me and sometimes I think i should be more assertive. Sometimes I think i just don't fit the role. I fit the role of the girl who perches at the edge of your mattress in a seafoam-green chemise, sleep in her eyes, a cigarette dangling precariously from her mouth, and a bottle of cotton candy pink nail polish in her hand.  I don't fit the role I'm supposed to fit. or maybe I do. I don't know. After all, it's only sometimes.

At least, in a week and a half I'll be in New York.
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