don’t call it a comeback.

It took me several false starts to even locate this dusty old thing, and I am wildly pessimistic about the probability of me continuing to update with any semblance of regularity. But I thought that today, instead of spewing into the ever-listening, ever-uncaring ear of Microsoft Word, I would spew to you. You’re welcome!

I began my day with a movie: City of Bones, the first installment in the Mortal Instruments series by Cassandra Clare. I first discovered Cassandra Clare through Livejournal; namely, her Harry Potter fanfiction. I remember seeing her talk about developing her own first book, then actually stumbling upon the book in Barnes and Noble. I remember being so impressed, and, as always, when confronted with the reality that sometimes aspiring writers become actual writers, somewhat diminished. As if, by their success, my chances of such are incrementally lowered.

I didn’t read the book until one of my managers recommended it to me with surprising, if not alarming fervor. I was firmly whelmed until I was roughly halfway through the book, struggling to keep up with the myriad number and species of characters (awkward redhead teen! awkward pining teen with glasses! intensely attractive demon hunter! ambiguously gay and also attractive demon hunter! pansexual warlock! nurturing werewolf! predictably mean vampire! gross…demon monster thing!). Eventually, I started remembering names and proclivities and become ensnared. It’s a little bit corny, but it’s a pretty exciting series, and much more fraught with identity and sexuality issues than I had expected from a seemingly supernatural-for-the-hell-of-it YA series.

Anyway. The movie adaptation was – expectedly – worse than the book, but still relatively entertaining and, y’know, cute. I was glad to go alone, because I couldn’t think of many people who would be willing to see this movie with me, and thus didn’t have to sit squirming in my seat, utterly sure that my theater companion was silently cursing me for bringing them to see something so juvenile and contrived. I liked the… young-ness of the whole thing. The possibility of true, undying love between two teenagers who had met 48 hours prior under the most improbable circumstances. But OMG! Better slam the brakes on those raging hormones because they might be siblings. EWWW. And yet, SIGHHH. While the loud teenyboppers who snuck into the theater made me want to commit hari-kiri on several occasions, my annoyance was also tinged with a fond nostalgia. I remember how it felt to see beautiful, doomed romance blossom between my favorite fictional characters. To see them kiss. I do.

After the movie, I strolled through Union Square and bumped into an old friend. Living in NYC is good for bringing you in contact with people you haven’t spoken to in way too long. Following the mini catch-up session, I bought a 90 cent pear for my boyfriend, who works a couple blocks away, and likes pears. He said thank you, and that I should check out the Barney’s warehouse sale one street over. I went. I was immediately overwhelmed and inexplicably angry. I left. Today I learned that I do not like warehouse sales.

I meandered over to Urban Outfitters, and after a disappointed browse through the sales racks, took a random turn into Rising Dragon Tattoos. Last night I had a tattoo-related revelation (this is much less dramatic than I am making it sound. I had an idea for my next tattoo) and decided that I should go talk to someone about it. The tattoo artists were pleasantly confused, so after getting  a business card, I left, promising to come back bearing a picture or two to help them visualize what I tried and failed to vocalize.

The rest of the afternoon found me in Williamsburg, happily thrifting in one of my favorite haunts, Buffalo Exchange. I ran into another old friend, and we spent an inordinate amount of time staring at each other in stupefied elation; it had been years since we had seen each other. For such a huge city, New York is stupidly small.

And now here I am, at a random bar I’ve never been to and probably won’t come to again, nursing my second Stella, butt sore from this unforgiving booth, thinking I might have to pee, stomach uncomfortably full from the fish and chips I didn’t finish. In a bit I’ll go home and get dolled up for the party I’m going to tonight.

(Pretty soon these empty summer days will be gone, replaced with the exhausting grey sludge of regularly scheduled work. If you’re reading this and you’re not a teacher, I know you’re cursing me for having this freedom at all. That’s okay. Curse me until your wand is blue in the face, and then come and teach middle schoolers all day, every day. There is a reason that there are some teachers, and so many other people who are not teachers.)

There is no thesis to this entry. This was my day. I think now I’ll go and pee and try not to think about the mosquito bite I just got – and when I fail, as I always do, I’ll scratch it.


One thought on “don’t call it a comeback.

  1. upstreamer says:

    so relieved to see you grabbed your quill again…love, unohoo

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