it's all happening

Of myself, of time, of family, of those who love and like me. I’ve always known I was lucky; with these people that I have met, that ask me questions, that ask me about me, that tell me about them, that I know. These people I can call, that I can text or not text, that I can show an ugly side, the ugliest side, and they are there, even when I am afraid they might not be the next time I’m ugly. These people that are people, multiple persons. Not just one, not none.

Humans are so complex; I find myself guilty of saying “he/she is so [    ]” or dismissing someone because I declare he/she is so [    ].  We are all so [    ]. These days, I am weary of people who claim they are [    ] or [    ]. Because, we are all [    ] or [    ]. At one point or many points or often or so many times one might declare always, but always is never true. Because we are all so complex. I am so complex. Humans are so complex.

Assorted sizes of stemless wine glasses, plastic promotional cups, and a collection of mugs, most displaying pictures of my baby brother at various ages. There is not a single traditional drinking glass in our apartment. 

Every human interaction is an opportunity to advocate for the Chase Sapphire Reserve card. 

Once in a while, I hit up every Sephora on my way home to collect samples of the PTR Irish Moor Mud Mask. This is my earnest attempt to comply to my no-new-products-until-finishing-old-products! rule. This morning, Lisa surprised me with a jar in a Hello Kitty bag.

I’m thinking about breaking up with my therapist. This would be my second in a year. 

It took me three lunch hours to finally get my Illinois driving record application notarized. I look too good in my Illinois license to give it up in exchange for a New York one.

My body is softer and [feels] wider than I have ever let it be; I weigh less now than at the height of my Pilates obsession. 

At the Belfry last week, Bobby could not stop laughing after I told him I might move to Brooklyn when my lease ends. I know, I don’t believe it either. But maybe if I say it out loud enough…

At 7AM, I “tested” two lines of tomorrow’s party favors off my Macbook. All day: No, I’m fine! I’m just congested, it’s this weather! Who the fuck am I?

Ever since Danny recited this quote at his dinner, I haven’t stopped feeling whole. I’ve never been less lonely than right now.

I have been in NYC for 7 months. Moments of inspiration to write about living (or surviving) here are common but fleeting. The number of attempts sitting in my drafts will embarrassingly support this. Each one already outdated. There’s too much to say (I still refuse to walk down a particular block of West 4th St.), there’s nothing to say (read: tonight, a Saturday (like many Saturdays), I will likely be asleep by 10PM), there are things I don’t know how to say (yet). So, to continue down the uninspired path of procrastinating on sharing my first 7 months, I’ll be simple about the next 7 (despite the fact that none of these things are).

Book Antarctica

Quit smoking. For real.

Start wearing SPF

Get an NYC driver’s license

When my Prius was rear-ended in BFE, Pennsylvania in the middle of another accident by a fucking Range Rover, 7 days before I planned to sell it.

An hour later, driving by a car completely crushed -- knowing there was no way the fate of the passenger(s) were spared.

The skyline, the skyline, the skyline. After an hour of little peeks of it the momentum waned. 

And then I put Spectacular Views on repeat.  

Fighting with the Manhattan Mini Storage agent about the insurance upsell and waiver.

[Piling any item I could de-tetris from my car on an industrial dolly, rolling my entire life up a 40 degree ramp, through a garage door that had a key sensor 15ft away, a max-security prison door, down two halls of units, on an elevator, down two floors to the basement, through four more rows of units, until I found a patch of even flooring so that I could unlock my 5′x5′x6′ unit without the cart rolling down, then haphazardly restacking the worn boxes and my poorly-wrapped frames. Six times I did that. It took me two hours to unpack my entire life, weaving and knocking every corner of the narrow-fucking-hallways of that dungeon with my dolly. I don’t remember not crying in that place.]

Against the door of my unit before I had to lock it and start all over again. 

Sitting down with my heel pressed against my crotch in hopes to delay the urge to pee so that I wouldn’t have to leave 1/6th of my life out in the open for anyone’s taking.

Finding a part of my bumper more damaged than when I initially surveyed it after the accident and being overwhelmed, knowing I’ll have to call the woman and my insurance and what the fuck are you serious and texting Kristine like if you don’t hear from me in the next hour it’s cause I’m at the bottom of the fucking Hudson river, don’t send a search party! seconds later, HELLO I AM HAVING A FUCKING MELTOWN WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU.

Breaking the frame that held pictures I took of Aleya in high school and SERIOUSLY WHAT THE FUCK and I threw the pieces into the unit anyway BECAUSE SERIOUSLY WHAT ELSE RIGHT NOW.

In my car, when I was finally done, exhausted and bent over the steering wheel with the air conditioning on high and can this get any fucking worse nyc is going to fucking murder me and I won’t resist.

Realizing it was already 9 PM, and it would be too late to drive to Crown Heights, take the train back to Midtown, and still have enough sleep for my first day of work. 

Paying $88 to park in Midtown.

When Jacqueline opened her door.

Jacqueline telling me I smelled. My dress soaked through with sweat and tears and sugar-free Redbull.

Calling the woman who rear-ended me.

Calling my insurance.

Calling her insurance.

In the shower.

In the dark, on Jacqueline’s couch, I’m doing it, I’m doing it, I’m doing it.