Hump Day

What is worse?

*Being at school for 4 hours with a pen that doesnt write and no time to buy one for $6
at the bookstore?
*Forgetting that you were suppose to read 93 pages into Jane Eyre for the second
day of class, and feeling embarrassed that your bookmark is at page 17.
*Being so busy that you forget to call your father whose undergoing cancer radiation therapy.
*Listening to your best friend cry on the phone for 45 minutes and not being able to do anything
about it because she's 645 mile away.
*Getting a call from your mother telling you that she's going to be here at 9:35 a.m. and she's staying until saturday.

You pick

My reading list

This is what I have to read this semester.

English 2:

Sigmund Freud "The Uncanny"
William Shakespeare "Hamlet"
Toni Morrison "Beloved"

English 40.4 Victorian Fiction

Charlotte Bronte "Jane Eyre"
Emily Bronte "Wuthering Heights"
Elizabeth Gaskell "Mary Barton"
Charles Dickens "Bleak House" (HOLY FUCK!!!)
George Eliot "Silas Marner"
Joseph Conrad "Heart of Darkness"
Oscar Wilde "Importance of Being Earnest"

another bullshit philosophy class

Plato "The Trial and Death of Socrates"
R. Descartes "Meditations on First Philosophy"
I. Kant "Groundwork"
F. Nietzsche "On the Advantage and Disadvantage of History for Life"
M. Buber "I and Thou"

I never thought I'd say this before but I think my math class is going to be a good break.

You are all allowed to pity me.

First day of the spring semester

I'm seriously considering dropping out.

Sunday of freedom

Last night was spent with Guy. I bought Japanese food from Miyagi and took it uptown to chill with him. When I got there he had made sweet potatoes, rice, salmon, and some incredible thing with cucumbers. We ate, we drank wine, we flirted shamlessly while Steeley Dan played on KCRW. And he always has Cartoon Network playing in the backround.

We watched part of The Motorcycle Diaries.(Which I love.) And I was impressed with his nonexsistent fear of subtitles. I impressed him with my unlengthly spanish vocabulary. ("no puedo".) We made out like bandits, and then we went to bed.

This morning we stayed in bed until about 10 o'clock kissing, and talking about everything. We talked about our favorite days. Mine was 2 years ago. His was 5 years ago. He was praying in "Bum fuck Morocco" and was washed clean by and old man and his two grandsons. By the time he finished his story which ended in his discovering yoga, I basically was speechless and felt a little childish about my own story.

He had to go to work, and i decided to go to around the clock for brunch. The 2 of you who read this already know that. I bought my paper and ate my eggs and drank my coffee.

Then I proceded to turn off my phone and walk around the city for almost the entire day. I explored SOHO, a neighborhood I know little about except that its unbelievably expensive and "hip" which in this town is just another word for expensive.

It was on Wooster St. that I saw Francis McDormand. We made eye contact for a little over 10 seconds. And as I walked past her and two of her friends she sounded like she was talking about my dread locks. This both enthralls and horrors me.

Anyway this post could continue on for days. But I will make my story short.

I bought a cookbook. I hardly ever actually cook for myself, and seeing as I'm a college student with an unusual amount of time on my hands, I figure why not learn the skill. So cutey Tyler Florence is now sitting next to my toaster waiting to teach me how to make blueberry scones with lemon glaze.

And I bought new jeans. They fit perfectly, which is all you can as from a pair of jeans, no?

I rented Kill Bill the 4,000th time and as I sing alog with the japanese songs word for word, I must go to bed. School starts tomorrow and I need to begin with my new years resolutions.

Time's flying by

Last year was absolutly the most important year of my life, thus far. I had prom, I graduated from highschool, and 3 weeks after that I moved 600 miles away from my home of 18 years to live in a place I dreamed about living in for those 18 years.

So why is everything before now such a blur?

I remember prom, I remember graduation, I remember long drives and Jones Sodas and smoking great pot, and doing other drugs, and listening to music that none of my friends had ever heard of. I remember that all in vivid detail, but i just seems so long ago, ya know? I feel like I'm so different now than I was then.

I'm still really unschooled in the ways of the world. But my life is so different now. In Michigan no one would dream of eating at a restaraunt with $15 entee's, I still feel a little guilty about it myself. I certainly cant afford it. But I somehow have aquired friends who can.

Sometimes I have to take a step back and examine things. Which is partially why I started this blog. I need to be able to appreciate NOW the fact that I can go to a members opening at the Met, and meet "High society" people, and then go home to my tiny studio, where I dont have television, and I have roaches.

Home just feels so far away. I think the worst part is that I, even though I miss my friends and my family from home, I truly am happy here. Is that wrong?

While the rest of the world was sleeping

The Guy (formerly New Guy) and I are good at mornings. The bed seems to be an oasis of sorts.
He wakes before his alarm and turns it off. Then he turns and cradles around me. A kiss on the sholder, the nape of my neck. I usually wake up as his hand grazes my chest. I smile to myself as he pulls me closer to him. We exchange good mornings and play footsie for a few seconds, then fall back asleep.

I usually wake up about half an hour later, as he pulls away from me to get ready for work. His office makes him work crazy hours so he doesnt have to be in the office until "10:30 at the latest".

I listen to him shower for a few minutes before I doze off again. He wakes me up as see saddles into bed with me again; his hair wet, his hands clammy. I turn and wrap myself around him like an octopus. "I wish I could lay in bed all day." He usually says, or something to that affect.

He switches on the radio to hear the news, and we listen to the weather report as I absentmindedly kiss his chest. We stay like this for a while. Just me, him, the bed, the morning news. We make remarks about the weather, as he lightly drags his fingers along my back. Its easy touching. Its possesive yet passive. The beginning of something. Something that may become nothing in the grand scheme of things. It also may be something incredibly meaningful, the foundation of profound love. A blossoming.

Eventually he sighs deeply and says "ok, I really gotta go to work now." I clutch him cutely and say "Stay with MEEE, you know you want to." He "Humphs" in agreement and makes a remark about bringing home the bacon.

I watch as he gets dressed, admiring the way he looks. The curves, the divots, the supple and the masculine. To me he is gorgeous. He asks for my opinion about shirts, and jeans. Always the black belt.

I get up and get dressed as well. Hoping that he's noticing me the way I notice him. As I buttoned my shirt this morning he walked over to me, holding my face he walked me back into the wall and kissed me. I felt his arms wrap around me, holding me secure. I felt the world drop away from me. A feeling that I usually had to simulate with a drug or a book. The kiss morphs into a hug, deep and tender.

When we break he puts his hand on the wall next to my head. He resembles John Travolta in Grease, or Jay and the Americans. "Hey kid," he says "I think I kinda like ya."
"You would," I reply teasing. We banter back and forth for a moment and then get serious. He needs to go to work, I need to let him.

We leave the apartment with a final polite, respectful lip lock. His hand on the middle of my chest, mine the side of his face. He likes me.

We walk to my train station, half a block away. We smile at each other, remark on the actual tempature. We talk about the New York morning. And we depart with a hug. I decend the stairs wishing for more time with him. And image him walking to work.

On the train I search my ipod for something profound, something to sum it all up, but I dont find anything. So I look, blank stares from commuters surround me and I think "If only they knew my story, my morning."

Big Resolutions

New Guy and I kept a palpable distance over the plast couple of days. We sent text messages every now and then, but they were very safe "Hows your day going?" "I hate my job" "Stuck at the office late again" kind of text messages. Chit-chat, you dont have to think communications.

Then today I went to MOMA with Lady L. It was something we had planned but I also like that I had a good reason to turn my phone off. I was in my best form. I explained why Jackson Pollock wasnt just drips on a canvas. I gave my opinion of why Warhol, though genius, shouldnt be as famous as he is. And there was the near 8 minute soliloquy where went into length explaining why Les Demoiselles d'Avignon really is one of the most important paintings ever produced. When people started kind of inching closer to me I realized I was getting long winded and needed to wrap it up.

But the art was relaxing. I enjoyed the photography wing. I went into a three part comparison on Hines, Dickens and Sinclair. And she stopped me when I started going off talking about how Dickens had good intentions but being published in magazines that werent in wide enough circulation at the time made Oliver Twist more substantial in hindsight than The Jungle and Hines' photographs.

But alas on the way home I hit a funk. I'll be honest I fell into a shitty mood. So at 5:30 in the evening when most people were leaving the office and pushing their way through the 42nd street station to get home, I was eating fried chicken and drooling over Russel Crow in Gladiator. One of the few action movies I really like.

Then I get a call from Doctor Michael. Asking me if I wouldnt mind having him buy me dinner. This sounded like the perfect upper. I got a gorgeous cheeseburger, that I ate like nobody's business. And I had great conversation about...prosititution. But more on that later.

After leaving Michael in Park Slope I walked to the trusty Q train, my beloved. I got a text from New Guy "So tell me, do know how to ice skate?"
"Oil and water" I text back.
"Perfect! We'll should go sometime this week"
"I'm game"
Then as I descended the stairs and swiped my card I thought "just like that, we'll pretend it never happened.

I guess I'm Sarcastic

You're Totally Sarcastic

You sarcastic? Never! You're as sweet as a baby bunny. Seriously, though, you have a sharp tongue - and you aren't afraid to use it. And if people are too wimpy to deal with your attitutde, then too bad. So sad.

How Sarcastic Are You?

Another Sunday

There's something very rejuvinating about mornings, dont you think?

I have come to a few conclusions and absolutes:

1.) If new guy wants to be friends then so be it. But I do actually want to be friends with him, not the kind of friend where we say friends and never see one another again. Let's face it, I dont have alot of friends in this city, especailly good friends.

2.) If new guy wants to give it a try and actually be in a relationship or some variation there-of, then I'm all for it. I would rather be with him in a romantic subtext then a plutonic one but at this point I'll take what I can get.

Does this sound ridiculous? Am I one of those people who needs someone? I have all these questions. I dont know. My friends all told me to wait until I have a year under my belt here before starting a relationship with someone. I got here on June 25th, moved into my apartment and said goodbye to my parents on July 17th and if my math is correct that means I've been here 7 months last Wednesday. Maybe they were right?


In other news!!!!


Today I had brunch with the Sunday Times at Around The Clock. It's one of my favorite restaurants in New York. Its the only place I can think of where I can get 2 eggs, home fries, toast, bacon and coffee for $5.95 its great. When my parents come to visit we go there alot.

From there I walked west on 9th street until I got Waverly Pl. (This may be a tedious read.) I then took Waverly to Three Lives & Co. bookstore; my favorite in the city. No the world. Its small with a big red door. The floor boards squeek affectionatly, and they manage to have every book I could ever want. Even some I dont, but thats not their fault.

Now I'm home with my purchases. The coffee is brewing, N.P.R. is playing softly and I have my notebook out on my desk. If the story is worth saving I promise I'll blog it.

Have a great Sunday.

Big Firsts

I have found myself feeling like a giant smelly bottle of Santorum. I have in this moment become one of them. Those people who get into fights and then feel the need to talk about it. (I guess for everyone thats not in my family thats normal.) So instead of talking about it, I'm blogging about it.

The New Guy and I got into what can only be described as an altercation, or maybe a misunderstanding. Anyway, I will digress: I was planning on having a special night. I was going to go to Miyagi and get some some food, rent a movie from the evil that is blockbuster, and head uptown to hang out with him, and thussly make-out like teenagers.

We were texting back and forth as I rode the train into Hatters and waited for him to tell me he was home. Somewhere between the Manhattan Bridge and Union Sq. he hit a bump. "I'm kinda in weird mood tonight", he messaged.

Now upon hearing this I knew immediately that my plans had been squashed. I'm not one to get cry over spilled milk, never have been, but missed beef negemaki is a whole other thing completely.

We discussed it at length, the actual problem being what I had suspected: I'm 19 he's what some would consider too old to be dating a 19 year old. There were no resolutions to this problem tonight besides that I was going to go back to Brookers and he was going to bed. He's been working all week on a new ad campaign for a company that's basically been a stick in rear (not so comfy.).

I'm not bothered by the fact that we didn't hang out tonight, though I was looking forward to it, what I am disappointed in is myself. I've always kind of prided myself on the fact that I didnt exactly act my age or like some stereotypical teenger. What I mean is that I'm rational enough to be one to slam doors, or play mind games, I dont say things I'll regret because the idea of saying something cruel enough to regret scares me shitless. But I did it, I said something unbelievably mean, or at the time it seemed that way.

There's a huge difference between this man and Bob. In alot of ways I thank and blame Bob for the way I'm acting. When I met him (bob) I was looking for someone interesting to introduce me to New York. Someone to show me around, take me to places I would never go with people my own age, and most importantly someone to care about me while I'm making my way here all alone.

It was in that scenario inevitable that I would develope feelings for Bob. How could he have not seen it coming. Then one day it happened: the big deal, the thing that made me certain that Bob would never ever love me. I had written about on here, but I dont think I may have said it in passing.

Bob had invited me to a screening of the film Infamous and we had met at his place a few hours before hand and of course had sex. Well we went to the movie, and walk from 66th to his place in midtown. We talked about Capote, Fitzgerald, Parker, Hemingway, yadda yadda. Anyway, it was unclear from the tone of conversation or body language whether I was coming back up to spend the night. We stopped outside of his door, and as he was pulling out his keys a neighbor walked up and unlocked the door.

Bob turned to me and STUCK OUT HIS HAND saying "Good night, kid" like fucking Humphery Bogart. He disapeared into the building and left me standing there thinking "what a fucking pussy". Now I understand that he's and important person that is noticed by a few people in town, but come on, seriously. He could have at least hugged me or something. Friends I havent slept with hug me.

What does this have to do with new guy? Everything. 1.) New guy and Bob live on the same block. 2.) New guy and Bob are both older than me. 3.) New guy and Bob are both amazing kissers. (I may be getting off track here).

But when new guy kisses me he's doing it because he wants to be near me, he wants to kiss me. When Bob kissed me he may have wanted to kiss me as well, but everytime we interacted there was a predispostion of sex. And though I've spent the night at New Guys apartment a few times we havent had sex, we're too busy talking till all hours of the night about our lives, and out likes and dislikes.

In short I feel awful for being an asshole and acting my age when I had no intention to. Other lessons learned : 1.) Bob = asshole 2.) New guy = great catch 3.) guilty feelings= impossibly long blog posts.

I'm Happy!

Hey there amigos. I just wanted to let everyone know that I am great. But I've learned something incredibly valuable in the last few days. Sleeping in your own bed is nice (this is true), but sleeping in someone elses bed is alot nicer, especially if they're there too.

Oh and if they make a movie about him, a younger Campbell Scott would play him.

So its Tuesday

I was reading my horroscope in one of those crappy New York papers online while I was in MI, and it said that January was a time for me to stumble upon romance. Or something as equally cheesey. All I have to say is "fuck". Ladies and Gents his name is Chris.

Now you are ALL aware of my penchant for older men, no? He works in advertising, he's older than me and than most. Anyway, I was at his apartment on Saturday evening, and we basically made out like school kids for 3 hours then with a promise to speak again soon we parted ways.

29 hours later we're talking on the phone (completely ignoring the 72 hour rule) and making plans to see a movie. Those plans occur tonight. I'm meeting him soon, and hopefully things will go well. He cooks, he dances embarrassingly, and he's been to Japan, England, and Morocco.

The only catch I can see, besides our age differences which really is not a big deal to me, is that he live (get this) on the same block as Bob. Now I know that strange things happen to me, but this has got to be the strangest. I'm not letting it get in my way or anything, but it needs to be pointed out.

Wish me luck!

Crash and Burn

My blog has died.

I'm trying to think of ways to rebuild it, make it stronger, faster, better.

Is that how the qoute went?

a poem

Who came before (New York City) Ocean Ave 1/8/07

At midnight I am nothing
neither alive nor awake.
Spectral and concentrate.

I listen out the window as the car alarms ring out
as the car horns shout,
at hookers on the their lunch breaks.

I listen through the door,
as the neighbors try to get in,
pushing my door back and forth.

I listen through the floor while my neighbors fuck loudly
there is not peace at 2 am
there is no time for sleep.

I watch as the sun breaks over the building
imagining the view from the Yorkville
But brooklyn has its charms.

II

Miles Davis plays loudly, Gershwin cresendoes into oblivion.
I check my window locks, and draw my blinds again.
I hum Etta James as I find my keys.

I check my mail box, find Fitzgerald with my bills,
Parker is in the New Yorker, I read it on the Q,
Ginsberg sits quietly watching the Williamsburg bridge.

Patti Smith walks with me down Delancy,
and then leaves me there for Mapplethorpe,
But I'm meeting Joey Ramone for coffee at 10

Basquait works for Three Lives & Company
He recomends the Warhol Biography
But I go with Pollock, he makes more sense.

III

I ran into Audrey on 57th, offered her some Cresants
she's on a diet, and she was wearing black.
I'll go ask Capote.

Whittam asked me where I was from,
He sat down while Joey was in the Bathroom.
I told the Middle of nowwhere, somewhere east of Queens.

Lennon and Ono, what a wonderful couple.
But they're nowhere near as nice as Julius and Ethel
Davidson needs work on his social skills.

IV

Back on Ocean I listen for the gun fights,
for the fist fights
for the robbers.

I listen to the honkers honking,
the hookers hooking
and the po po po-poing

I listen to the creeks from the ceiling
the moans of the evening
and the wind from the world.

I crawl into bed, as Miles blares out another,
as Coltrane bears his soul
as Etta and Ella and Billie bear all.

I think of the middle of now where
how I got here
where I'm going

I think of who came before.


I dont know if this poem makes any sense but there it is.

A Ruff Draft

The land was flat along the highway. All around it was grass, greyish-yellow grass that reminded him of Iowa, reminded him of why he left Iowa. The old pick up he was driving looked more rust than automobile and the radio was on the fritz again. You would never have been able to tell where he was. To be completely honest he was quite sure where he was, but he was away from it. All of it.

Clint's cigarrett was burnign down fast. It was his last one. And with no radio, not heater, and no company, he needed something to take his mind off of what he was doing. The highway was sparse with traffic and clint liked it that way. It was lazy, coming and going, though he was only going at the moment. He wasnt coming to anything, just going somewhere.

A white moving van passed him on the right. Clint looked at the driver. He was a built man, mid forties possibly. He was smoking what looked to me a rather large joint, and nodded to Clint as he passed. It wasnt an angry nod, though it wasnt a very hospitable nod either. It just was what it was. Everything just was what it was.

The note he had left didnt say much, he wanted to keep it vague, for the sake of all things. It was what it was: a goodbye note. The details he purposely left out would be discovered by his parents perhaps. Most likely not. They were good people, he loved them, but he knew what he needed. His friends wouldnt understand why now. Things there were good for him. He was young, fit, and fairly attractive. People liked him, he was polite to strangers, held doors open for women of all ages, and called men sir, or Mr.

His friend knew him to be spontaneous. They knew that he would do this one day. But they had wrongfully assumed that he would need an excuse to do it. An excuse to leave home.

"The world is a big place," he had told them once, "If I'm going to see all of it, I better start now."

So here he was on a highway that he couldnt name, in a state he couldnt place and in a truck he didnt rightfully own. Next to him on the seat was a duffle bag with 3 pairs of pants, 4 pair of socks, 4 shirts, 6 pair of underwear, and 2 sweat shirts. He had his tooth brush, his deoderant, and a cassette tape of Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin Bob Dylan. His single subject red notebook had slid to the floor during a fast turn; the pen stuck into the ringlets. His Nikon 35mm camera was safely kept in the overside glove compartment. His Zippo lighter was on the dashboard. The light was black, shiny and worn.

The highway stretched out in front of him, but at the moment he needed cigarettes.

What I Just stepped in

A giant, white, dead crab in the middle of Church Avenue.
I love today none the less

(I'm not witty today)

So I really suck at spelling. The three of you know that, you cope with it, because you care about the overall message. My punctuation is really kind of an art form. I say this because I use semi-colons like Jackson Pollock might use the color yellow. Periods come as frequently as pomegranite soup, or something as equally disgusting.

The general consensus (did I mess that up?) among my friends is that I write better than I talk. I'm the kid who says "like" fifty times just discribing his lunch order. When I talk I get too excited about what I'm trying to say and forget to actually say it. When I write words like "privy", and "ensconced" come to me easily. They're magical letters that float together in my alphabet soup.

I've been thinking about what I really honestly want to do with my life. This being the time when people usually think about things like that. I've wanted, since the moment I picked up "Where The Red Fern Grows". I wanted to make 11 year old boys cry in their beds. I want to make people laugh like David Sedaris, and cry like Tim O'Brien.

Now I'm not so sure. I dont know if I could actually make someone cry with beautiful prose, if in fact my prose is beautiful at all. Maybe I should be a journalist? But the hours, the endless fact checking and rechecking, the years it takes before you actually get to write what you want. And all I would want to write is four page exposes about Darfur, and Burma, and follow ups on the Dahlai Lama. I wouldnt want to write about Jeffy's auto-mart. I hope there isnt a place like that in exsistence, its probably in Michigan.

I remember reading The Hours and hearing Richard talk about how he wanted to be a writer. To write about a moment, the whole moment, something so small and significant broken down into letters and words; loved somehow defined by ink on a piece of paper. He couldnt do it, and he knew he couldnt do it. I fear that I cant do it either. I know that I've been in love, with James. I know what it feels like to need someone there with you, I know lonliness. I know what it feels like to be emotionally abandoned by a parent. I know the void of having ceased to love someone. I know the slow and painful process of healing. I know that in alot of ways I am a soul covered in bandaids.

But could I have a character like that? Could I "create" a person who had fears, and needs and wants; hopes and dreams crushed by life, a Charles Foster Kane, a David Copperfield. The thought of being responsible for the lives of others, fictional but still people, is so frightful to me. I make them cry, I make them laugh, I make them fuck; and in turn you, the audience, cries, laughs, and gets off in response.

I scare myself into writer's block sometimes. But the need to tell a story prevails and I write more. I write journal entries, poems(bad poems), and I draft novels and stories.

My friend MP told me about students of his that want to be writers "because they think writers dont actually work". Its true. Many people dont want to actually have to sit and write the book, let alone write it well. I want to write the book, I have written a book, or a novella, but I'm afraid of doing it half assed. I'm afraid of writing about true love and having my audience laugh, or worse pretend to understand and then laugh.

Books are crowning achievments for anyone. They're often overlooked as something alot of people do after Grad School. But its work, hard work. Rewrites, sudden moments of inspiration, late nights spent thinking "Just until I get to the heart of it. For every 10 pages written 2 are saved and thats really good.

I want to write about it all. I want to write about true love, and talk at length about a perfect cup of coffee, or those little moments that you never tell anyone about. I want to make money from it, so I can travel and write about traveling. I want to describe riding on an elephant, and running from a bear.

I will be a writer, in the sense that I will put words on page describing and event, Ink on paper. But will I be Cormac McCarthy? Will I be Joan Didion, or Ernest Hemingway. Will I be Keroauc, or Ginsberg? Or will I be discovered after I stopped writing, found in on the few remaining bookstores by a young boy struggeling to find himself in a world thats moving too fast. I can only hope for that.

Life is short, and I'm not one to giving up something that I really love. So if I dont ever write "The Great Gatsby" or "On The Road" I may end up being okay with that. What I wont be okay with is if I never tried to write. Fear is healthy, thats why people have dreams, because they're liberating and frightening.

I'm going to try, I'm going to write, and I'm going to get published. It may not be "Ulysses" but its something, right? There's honor in the trying. I just hope my editor doesnt mind that I cant spell.

So I'm back in a New York mood

I'm back!
The trip was good I guess. I got to spend some much needed time with old friends, and have some new adcventures. I had a Christmas dinner almost void of arguments (those came later), and I rang in the New Year with a few people I wasnt sure I would ever see again.

But I'm back in Manhattan and things are good, because here I'm no one. In Michigan I sort of felt like Neal Cassidy, always provoking the real geniuses to work harder, and live larger. Here I'm just a college student who works too hard, and doesnt have enough time to read The Sun Also Rises for the 5th time.

I got back in touch with friends here. Some of whom I've decided to leave behind me because I'm almost certain my wanting to be friends with them is hurting the actual friendship we could have had. I know that doesnt make sense but its what I'm saying.

When I'm in New York I never feel that New York feel, the feeling that connects all 0f those who live here. That New York feel. Riding the 6 train, walking down Broadway, spending the afternoon in Central Park. You all know what I'm talking about though, right? (At least those who live here.) When you watched The Devil Wears Prada and you saw them eating at Mayrose and you thought "they have really great omlettes" or when you watch Sex and the City and point out that your friend lives in that building, whichever building that may be.

It doesnt happen when youre in New York, its not that atmosphere that surrounds Manhattan, its an editorial New York. New York in print, on film, and in conversation.

I was considering moving somewhere else when my lease ends in June. But I dont think I can now. Because I understand what I'm part of now. I'm not a somebody here, I wont be for a long time, but with a friend who deals art, a friend in enterainment, an aquaintence in publishing I've unknowingly set myself up to become a somebody. Of course in New York there are no somebodies. Its how everyone else thinks of you. Those non-New Yorkers. Because we dont really give a shit who you are if youre walking too slow in front of us.

I heart New York. I love Manhattan, and Brooklyn. I'm not afraid of the Bronx, I tolerate Queens, and respect anyone who likes living on Staten Island. Will I ever leave New York. Of course I will. I want to live in Europe and Asia, I want to do relief work in Africa. I want to learn to surf on Bondi Beach, and go hiking in Nepal. I want to walk through Cambodia, and listen to friends play at a bar in London.

Life is too short to not do anything with it. I refuse to stop experiencing things just because I moved to New York when I was 18. With luck I will live past 100, and do not see Europe in 100 years in inexcusable in my book.

The book has been outlined, it is in a folder sitting on my desk/table/dvd rack, I'm hoping to do something with it soon, because all I have at the moment is time.

Happy New Year.

When you really miss something

I'm salivating. I'm going nuts thinking about it and my taste buds are starting to hate me. I have the biggest craving for two (not just one) wonderful things.
The first are the apple yogurt muffins at Universal News Cafe. I honestly think that Mel Gibson made them himself.
The second is the beef negamaki at the restaurant the Michael and I frequent. If Jesus was Japanese this is what heaven would taste like.

In other news I'm having an ultrasound tomorrow. Aparently I may have gaul stones, why is it that I can only pass the really difficult stuff?

Will write more later. I feel ill. This time I promise I wont disappear for 11 days.

New Years Resolutions

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!!

It is the new year, 2007, lots a changes, and new adventures await me. I'm petrified, I really am. But at the same time I'm hopeful. Maybe this year I will find someone to love, because to be honest I am a little lonely. MaybeI will find the perfect apartment, because I really need to move. And maybe, just maybe, I will actually finish something I start writing and I wont hate it, because I really need to work more.

I need to go on a big trip. I know that is a certainty. I need to stop thinking about James, because its obvious that nothing is going to happen there, and frankly I dont think I really want it to.

But my Resolutions are as follows:

1.) Lose weight. I'm not over weight, I'm just out of shape, and I could stand to lose a few pounds.
2.) Stop smoking. I dont smoke habitually, but I use it as a cruch. When things get rough I my lighter is a lighting. Then I fall into a pattern and everything is just not good after that.
3.) Read more. I know this may sound a little unusual considering I read almost everyday, but I have a habit of buying books for comfort and then never reading them. When I read now I dont feel like I'm retaining anything.
4.) Run 4 days a week. I ran cross country through middle and high school. I know I'm busy but there's really no excuse for not running 30 mins a day.
5.) Be more charitable. I love buying presents for friends and I have lots of those Lance Armstrong wristbands but I hardly ever give to real charities.

I'm thinking of cutting down on the coffee intake also. I drink ALOT of coffee. Also I want to make more friends.

I think that sounds good.

Now I can sit and reflect on the end of one of the most important years of my life.

I wish you all a good 2007