"i have to go home," whispered a voice i couldn’t discern, partially because i was half asleep and partially because the last time i woke up in bed with someone was over a year ago.
this was disconcerting, but i ignored it because i care not for my personal safety but for the tenderness and sanctity of my sleeps.
unfortunately, it spoke again. “i have to change for work,” it said.
upon peeling my eyelids apart, i came to find that i was not draped in matteo sheets on a w hotel mattress in my beautiful house, i was fully clothed and laying next to an equally clothed girlfriend of mine… and to my right (!) an enormous male stranger who was bundled like tinder in a pile of sheets on a bed we were all in together.
(not this ^ bed, but it speaks to me and is significant.)
immediately i began to panic, questioning everything, WHERE AM I? HOW DID I GET HERE? WHO IS DEAD? and WHO DID I KILL?
meanwhile, marquia (equally clothed girlfriend/aforementioned voice/veritable professional human) could not have been more awake or ready to conquer the day ahead of her. “i have to go home to change,” she said again, calmly, like i wasn’t frantically trying to piece together the prior ten hours to figure out how we were going to get away with sleeping among the decaying carcass of a man we had killed.
this is where, in the life of any normal, self reflective person, (i assume, though it is difficult, as these traits are extremely far removed from my levels of mania) he or she would admit to being a raging alcoholic and check themselves into rehab. in MY life, in the life of binx, i wake up from a slumber threesome, and am on a mission to enforce a cease and desist on the horrible flute melody that is working in tandem with my girlfriend’s throaty voice, harassing me to wake up, and to find a bottle of sparkling water and a taxi home.
marquia and i v gracefully, like two of the highest quality work for hire escorts and most delicate murderers, creep out of the #sleepsome bed and head straight to the door, as we are already fully clothed. i hesitate momentarily, contemplating checking our mans’ pulse but then i see that he had activated the chain lock on the door, effectively convincing me that he had intended to kill us before we fell asleep in a heap of our clothing and giggles… or upon waking up next to our sweating bodies.
assuming this murder could now be deemed self defense, we promptly unlocked the door and saw ourselves out.
on our way downstairs - after demanding marquia button the blazer i am wearing over a leather bra, because i am functioning exclusively from the neck up - i remember that we ended up back at the bowery hotel because i demanded this man allow us to order steak from room service and he agreed in an effort to placate us before our anticipated, untimely deaths at his hands.
let me start from the beginning…
marquia and i had a seafood tower at jeffrey’s grocery earlier that evening, so we were feeling extremely glamorous and luxe from jump. why *wouldn’t* we end up waking up in a hotel room with a stranger who was, ostensibly, trying to recreate a scene from caligula as we were trying to amanda knox his ass in a twisted but passionate lust murder, fueled by a continued borderline obsessive interest in becoming a nationally treasured murderer!
after we ate the entire cast of finding nemo, we made our way to the bowery hotel where we proceeded to harass people with little to no provocation. for instance, i called a man who most likely works seasonally as a santa claus impersonator, “santa claus” and then threw my phone across a room in order to escape a group of decidedly harmless men who had, within minutes, caused me to cultivate a v specific and trenchant sense of boredom that i could no longer allow to continue.
following a minor “talking to” by management and joint feigned remorse for being horrible little brats, marquia and i retired (lead by aforementioned management) to a nearly empty room, where we could no longer wreak havoc on the innocent.
that’s when we laid eyes on our next victim, a v tall and handsome man who strutted in wearing a cap and a henley like he’d just wandered off the set of a rom-com featuring whatever that baseball stadium in boston is. moments later, he walked out in the same manner he’d walked in - peacocking for an audience of two - but before we could even get it together to make a plan to get him to engage with us (or to, you know, propose engagement) he was back!
so easy, so so easy to intrigue someone who is trying to intrigue you when there is literally no one left in the lobby of a hotel you’re staying in at two in the morning. nothing to it! someone’s gonna give in. wait it out.
this man, we’ll call him mac, sat down at a seat next to us and started pretending to do something on a phone that was not an iPhone. he ordered a drink, blah blah blah.
we captured him and the next thing we know, we’re in a cab going to another bar.
things begin to get hazy here for a variety of reasons - not the least of which is that i had had more than one drink and stood up - but i do remember v clearly a plan that marquia and i devised instantaneously and wordlessly upon introducing ourselves to a friendly young gay man who volunteered that his best friend was from namibia.
"us too," we said.
"where?" he asked, as if anything we would say would have rung any bell.
"a really small town," i answered. "town" i said. "a really small town," i said. "you would’t know it," i said, to a man who was drunk enough to nod his head in agreement and understanding had i said "botswana" or "atlantic city" or showed him a picture of a penguin.
it was three thirty in the morning, no one was fact checking my histrionics.
someone was, however, participating in them. her name was marquia and she chimed in with a ludicrous account of how she and i would drive to “the country” to see each other for whatever reason. at this point, our new, soon-to-be mortal enemy thought it wise to call his best namibian girlfriend and, following suit, we pulled out our best work by declaring we would leave her a message. in namibian. in the language of namibia.
the language of namibia is english. i knew this.
i left a message in “namibian.”
unclear about mac’s whereabouts at this point, giddy at the prospect of an english speaking foreigner hearing my voice speaking to her in a totally unintelligible derivative of pidgin and astonished by my ability to sustain myself in the upright position, we decided to go outside to smoke, at which point mac magically reappeared… or was with us the whole time? unclear. my journalistic integrity from this point forward is shoddy at best and completely fabricated at worst!
i smoked my life’s twenty third cigarette and forced marquia to join me in a squat position on the ground, while our giant chaperone watched us banal babes with chilling disinterest. attempting to spark something in this man, in the laziest manner possible, we decided to go back to my apartment, which was one hundred steps away.
once there, we got yelled at by an upstairs neighbor who marquia perfunctorily called “big ben” after she raised her window to yell down to us that it was five in the morning. wanting to make sure to alienate this person further, i surmised, verbally, but in a whisper, that she was just jealous we had a patio… and then ran right inside, lest i hear any rebuttal from her that would make me “get psycho”, a habit i am consistently trying to curb.
somehow we make our intentions (to eat steak on a mattress) clear and now we’re piling into a getaway car mac has hired and heading back to the hotel whence we came.
continuing to orchestrate the most glamorous version of this night possible, i jump into bed and dial room service - or rather, i pick up a phone and begin detailing my order to the concierge before being placed on hold and transferred to room service.
unfortunately, steak wasn’t available on their sunrise menu, so instead i ordered three different entrees and an off the menu mac and cheese, which we proceeded to eat with our fingers before we wilted like daisies, falling asleep to my maudlin mumblings about a predilection for unavailable men and a future of loneliness!
a mere four hours later, we were crawling over one of those men.
the diamond as big as the ritz, f. scott fitzgerald
just a friendly reminder that my birthday is in ten days and i have a birthday wish list that you may or may not be aware of. if you haven’t seen it, here. if you have seen it (or, when you see it for the first time), sorry, but i love things and lists and over-sharing vaguely relevant information and most importantly i am freezing and if nothing else, really need a blanket (it’s #4) to cover my bones with.
(not ideal but, it’s also a great gift guide for the 2014 holiday season, if you totally blow it and can’t manage to pull it together by the 26th. i celebrate christmas and the new year by receiving gifts.)
in a perfect world, i’d have the technological savvy to keep my birthday list at the top of this blog that no one reads so that when i forcefully directed people here, they wouldn’t have to scroll past a picture of my butt in its birthday suit in order to view it.
but alas, there are so many disappointments in this world. that is one of them. here is another, real one.
a few months ago i started the process of becoming a “big sister” (not like asking one or both of my parents to have sex. gross). this process began with an orientation, at which juncture i met 20-25 of the most banal, unsophisticated and callow humans i’ve ever encountered in my life. i’m talking about people who, collectively, keep groupon afloat, who wear khakis and want to extol the benefits of zipcar and the proximity of their “practical” housing in jersey city, a group of people who read time out magazine religiously enough to recite each weekend’s bevy of free activities around the city by heart, a bunch of plebs who have earnest bucket lists that include consuming “amazing” burgers, a selection of new york’s young adults who respond to people in the service industry, who they perceive to speak spanish, en español— i digress.
a group of boring fucking white people.
after that excruciating process, i then met with a social worker for two hours to talk about myself and my brain and things that might make me unfit to have a child’s life in my hands.
if today was any day before yesterday, i would have elaborated on this meeting and explained to you that i did a fantastic job and i was surely about to be given a child to mentor the shit out of, but yesterday happened.
yesterday, i got a note from those terrible judges of character, thanking me for my time and interest in becoming a mentor and regretfully informing me that i was, indeed, unfit to be a mentor, to have a “little,” to be referred to as a “big”
TO SHAPE A YOUNG PERSON’S LIFE IN MY LIKENESS. i’m summarizing; they obviously did not refer to me as being “unfit.” they have a handful of platitudes from which to choose.
though, they might consider rewording their missive if they were privy to the fact that the only reason i even got this letter in the first place - as i check my mailbox, on average, every six weeks - is because i was waiting for an ebay delivery of cutoffs. so, as a recap, i never check my mailbox, which clearly bars me from being able to handle any level of responsibility AND i thought two pairs of denim shorts would fit in a container that holds paper, which is clearly the mark of a clinically insane person and a person who should not be in charge of a child’s wellbeing.
despite this, i find it peculiar that i would be rejected from anything, really. i’m quite used to getting my way and i have a phenomenal track record with things that involve an application process. i am a genius at applying for things and also a genius, in general. just last summer, i applied for and received (on the spot, no less!) a library card and when i was merely a teenager in high school, i got accepted to every college i applied to, including the ivy league one i actually attended. yet… rejected from having a stranger’s daughter serve as my biological little sister!
bizarre. i agree.
and to think, i didn’t even get to divulge the activities i thought we would partake in. namely, jaywalking, impromptu roadtrips across borders, reading classical literature and horoscopes, general troublemaking, an occasional museum visit, jury duty (i will forever rue the day this case was settled out of court), juice cleanses, activities that involve sweating while naked, and copious over-sharing on the internet… though i did tell that woman about my internet presence, and come to think of it, this would raise red flags for casey anthony…
touché “big” admin. touché. another “little” left unscathed by someone who isn’t their parent!
i hope my little sister is having fun at a fucking basketball game in the worst seats, eating dollar pizza in central park or whatever her goldman sach’s big is doing with her.
my birthday is coming up in twenty one days (9/26) and, as is my prerogative, wont, and (sad, unsuccessful) tradition, i have compiled a birthday reigstry for those of you who love me enough to read my blog, to baby my whims and to indulge my unreason.
you might have noted that last year i lamented both the twelfth anniversary of not receiving a gift from either parent AND the high probability that, based on history, my gift diary would go unread and all the carefully curated gifts, unpurchased, as i was blogging to no audience.
well, i’m happy to report that i was gifted not one, but two items from last year’s birthday checklist, and one gift was given to me by two different people. great news, i know!
however, a mere two days after receiving last year’s #6 gift from my then boyfriend, my then boyfriend THEN broke up with me… which is NOT what i asked for in my gift request catalog. i repeat, that was NOT a birthday wish.
as it was the first time in years i’ve received a birthday gift from someone, i can neither confirm nor deny that ending a relationship post-birthday is protocol once a gift has been given, but as i don’t have a boyfriend this year, i am at no risk for future heartbreaks so please, everyone, get me all the gifts you want!!!
here are some suggestions for you (so you don’t end up gifting me, for instance, a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette, as someone, who shall remain nameless, did just four hours ago, rendering him dead to me):
1. sneakers, size 38.
3. a backpack to hold books in.
7. knicks season tickets… but floor seats.
9. a spa day. (click the link, it’s important not to go rogue on this one, thank you)
10. a trip here. though i am not a baby, i also do not know how to swim but would love to enjoy the pleasures of being in a body of water without the crippling anxiety attached to realizing the imminence of death! also i want to be involved in something called “float baby” in any way i can.
11. jewelry from broken english, but don’t buy online. see below for inspiration and go to their store on crosby street and speak to izzy, an angel from los angeles, who moved to new york so she could experience the hell that is this city in the filthy, sweaty summer when it’s swarming with filthy, sweaty tourists who want to experience the new york they know about from sex and the city or catcher in the rye or the movie version of american psycho… or the movie version of the great gatsby, depending… on their understanding of reality.
anyway, izzy is a real life doll that escaped the confines of a display case to bring joy and attitude to these streets… and to convince you to buy me jewelry that she thinks would adorn me effectively.
izzy refers to herself in third person, using the female, subjective case, singular personal pronoun, HER. so, be aware of that. she loves it… (i just did it there to prepare you. i was talking about me not her.) izzy has a dog named doe that i do not hate - though the idea of a dog that isn’t a puppy, specifically one of these, makes me cringe - and sometimes it comes with her to the store. both doe and izzy receive commission, so if izzy isn’t there, walk right out. it’s a dog eat dog world. ;)
please make sure i get every single gift i asked for. thankyousomuch.
"That Poe lied compulsively about his own life has proved the undoing of many a biographer."
-"The Humbug", from The New Yorker
for the reference of my biographer: i loathe films, that is a robe, not a duster, i’m wearing these men’s (note: “these men’s” vs “this man’s”; as if!) underwear underneath those shorts, and i am a compulsive liar, but all of those things are truths.
this weird start up called breather, which allows you to rent rooms by the hour in order to… idk, breathe (since you obviously can’t do that elsewhere), sent me an email (not personally) asking me (again, not personally) to share my experience in order to win FIVE FREE HOURS in one of their dumb rooms.
i only know about breather rooms because i was trying to catch someone cheating in one of them last week.
i shared this experience. i am sure the company consists of four or five extremely earnest people, and one of them received my email directly to their inbox. it’s below.
(also, i do not want those five free hours and i obviously killed it with my experience, so hmu if you want my winnings.)
i first heard about breather through my best friend, penelope. penelope heard about breather through her sister. penelope’s sister heard about breather through her boyfriend… who was potentially using a breather room to cheat on her! … but i’m getting ahead of myself.
it all started when the sister got an email from breather including her on an upcoming reservation her boyfriend had made. sounds innocent, right!? that’s what i said!
penelope said, au contraire … in english and i’m summarizing. what she actually said was much longer and involved an explanation of her sister receiving this email without any warning or any further followup from the boyfriend. this led her, naturally, being a rational woman of the world, to deduce the email had been forwarded by mistake and that he was using this workspace to meet another human for sexual relations, or, at the very least, chatter about previous and/or upcoming sexual relations. whatever it was, it wasn’t good and we were not about to let this guy get away with it… in a room meant for productive work, no less!
so, we devised a fool proof plan like many spies before us - namely, harriet (the spy), the cortez siblings of spy kids, spy vs spy, and of course, our biggest inspiration, may her soul rest in peace, brittany murphy in little black book - and hauled our butts up to a hideous part of the city for our clandestine operation, in search of the truth, justice, and most importantly, a breather.
penelope, having aptly thought out our morning’s activities, disguised herself and kept a low profile in the streets, as we passed our point of entrance twice. when we found the spot, she casually dropped off while i infiltrated the building and made my way into the elevator and up to the 8th floor.
upon exiting the elevator, i could have sworn i was compromised when a gentleman who got off on the same floor turned around to ask me if i was going to the same place he was going. i acted cool; now was not the time to blow my cover. i’d made it this far.
i said ‘no’ and fell back while he walked on. i located the room but it was too close to the elevator banks to be sure i could bust my mark undetected, so i took a loop around and dry cleaned the place. (dry cleaned is a spy term for making sure there was no surveillance.)
i walked right up to the breather room and slammed my tiny spy body into the extremely heavy door, only to find myself still outside. the door was locked and one can only enter with a code. (great for privacy; cheers!)
all in a spy’s day’s work, i thought, as i decided to move quickly to plan b: knock politely. i did just that and when no one answered i sat myself down and decided to wait it out. whatever guys, i thought. i’ll catch you post coitus.
i sent penelope a text telling her of my troubles, but assuring her my cover had not been blown and that i would be waiting outside for the boyfriend and whoever else he was assuredly in this room with, ready to off tops.
penelope said she’d get in touch with her sister and maybe she would have the code.
some time passed and finally the door opened, but instead of the tall, white man i’d been studying the face of all morning, a tall, black man emerged. there was no time to get caught up in minute details, i needed answers; i needed to act!
i got up, went right over to this guy and said, ‘hey what was going on in there?’ understandably, he was confused, but he answered me and said, ‘nothing.’ and i said, ‘nothing, huh? who was in that room?’ and he said, ‘no one.’
but i knew better than to take this mole’s answers without question, so i asked him two more times and two more times he answered that no one was in there and then the elevator opened so i followed him in to get the rest of the story. i had not yet ruled out his involvement as the second party in this sordid rendezvous.
i asked him what was in the room, if, in fact, there were no humans in it. he said the room had a desk, a chair, a bookshelf and a couch. and i said, ‘and who was in there?’ to catch him off guard. he didn’t flinch. ‘no one,’ he repeated, not even the slightest bit annoyed!
i asked him if he wouldn’t mind letting me into the room, telling him my friend had booked it but hadn’t arrived yet. he said i needed a code and i said he should let me in because he definitely had the code and if he was positive no one was in there, what was the harm? in a surprise twist, he answered by telling me that he worked for breather!!… and then continued to stress that i would need a code, something i knew already from trying in vain to break into said room minutes beforehand.
shortly after i returned to my post outside of the breather room (i remained unconvinced of the man’s adamant testimony against the unfolding of sex acts in a room equipped with both a couch and a bookshelf at 11am on a tuesday) penelope texted me saying that her sister had called breather and breather had told her that the boyfriend had cancelled the room!
breather, it was great knowing you. i’m only on this list because i signed up in order to book the above mentioned room in order to see if it would be conducive to sex acts.
the highest prize in a world of men is the most beautiful woman available on your arm and living there in her heart loyal to you
- norman mailer
[noted relationship expert]
i am so deeply obsessed with this relationship; i do not care that these two people appear to be both in and made of garbage, that mk’s style is rubbing off on olivier so much that he has taken to dressing like a duffel bag, that they are wearing an array of household furnishings as personal accoutrements, that mary kate continues to look like danny devito or that it still remains unclear if olivier sarkozy is her father, grandfather, some iteration of a French grim reaper, or, in fact, her fiance.
what i do care about, however, is how happy these two dead psychos look whenever their ghostly faces are photographed together.
i also care about their general well being, especially olivier’s, with his exorbitant intake of secondhand smoke, and mk’s, with her ever depreciating levels of melanin. i care that these two may be having too much fun or not enough fun, but that we’ll never be able to tell because their mouths remain in a constant smirk that precludes interpretation.
i care about meeting a man old enough to be, at the very least, mistaken for my father, and, at best, mistaken for a literal cradle robber… a man whose age incites gossip so lascivious it can only be extinguished by an apt team of lawyers he’s had on salary since the Bush administration.
I care about one day falling in love with a man so enormous he casually mistakes my tiny tiny pin head for a basketball (while we are front row at a basketball game) and grabs it in order to gain empirical evidence to prove or disprove this fleeting notion, right before he politely apologizes for this silly mix up and throws thousands of euros at everyone in eyesight to ensure they never tarnish his name by speaking of this moment.
i care about those things, these two, finding true love with a forty something year old giant…
and that’s predominantly it.
last night, i died a hundred deaths and none of them were la petite morts and all of them were metaphorical suicides.
(this is an extremely lengthy and detailed story about a period of 48 hours that can be boiled down to one sentence. cliffs notes: i have raging aspergers. but if you are interested:)
sunday night, i met a guy at the bowery hotel (henceforth referred to as the bowery) and he took my number and the next night he vaguely booty called me in a strangely intriguing way, by referring to my ass as cake, asking where it was, and then saying he was “hungry.”
idk. i guess that is what a booty call is. i told him my ass was in bed and it was too late for cake and that was the end of that.
the next night (tuesday), he texted me that he was having a birthday drinks thing and gave the address and time.
(my friend nicole aptly pointed out that this was strange, because he lives in LA and how did he have enough friends to have a birthday thing in a city across the country…?)
45 minutes after the time he wrote in the text message, i showed up with two girlfriends to an empty bar. except, it wasn’t empty at all! there were three people in it: one was the bartender, one was the guy (let’s call him Dan, because he sucks and so does that name. his name is really Alex) and one was a girl the guy was with.
there we were, just two groups of three people, in a bar on houston, systematically ignoring each other.
it seemed rather uncivilized to let a tiny thing like finding out the person you thought was going to kiss your lips and touch your butt and compliment you for a few hours (before you divulged that they were wasting their time if they expected to get any personal pleasure out of the evening)had someone else to do that with get in the way of having a drink… in front of them, in an empty bar in a despicable neighborhood on the day of the aforementioned human’s birth.
so, we attempted to order a drink. but ayla didn’t have her ID and by some divine miracle, the bartender gave us a beautiful opportunity to take our leave, by declining to serve her.
we uttered zero words to anyone - save for the incessant hushed diatribe against Dan and the situation under our breath from the moment of entry to exit - left and went to the bowery.
about forty minutes later, Dan and a large group of people, ostensibly celebrating his birthday, walk in. *first instance of figurative suicide*
i had a very concentrated series of snorts come from my body and i nearly passed out from the exhaustion of trying to repress both my uncontrollable snorting and my excruciating desire to turn into lava.
then everything was mildly bearable and i ceased feeling like the universe was trying to destroy me and i drank my tequila on the rocks and ordered another one even though ayla said i shouldn’t, because she is my guardian angel and also is embarrassed when i do things like, for example, everything i am about to write about having done… but i didn’t listen to her because i have agency and an insatiable thirst for tequila and because she was drinking three drinks at once and my ex boyfriend paul once said that anyone who drinks that many drinks at once is not to be trusted. (swear to god. but he also said that he was six feet tall and i only recently learned of this wild deception, so who knows what is true and what isn’t!)
maybe twenty minutes after my initial mental death, my second small death occurred when ayla, who was facing the door, sent a lethal injection my way by whispering to me, “i think Eli [fake name, but v close and similar to real name; i want to help you crack these codes] just walked in” and i turned around just in time to see his slight frame float through the room and onto the patio.
(eli is a person i’ve never humiliated via this blog, but who i continually humiliated for a period of three months, by withholding sex - oral and otherwise - from him without reason, while he freely engaged me in the former.
he is also a person who, after three months of this, i presume, got tired of being played in a game called “is it tonight?” and decided to play me in a game called “bye felicia” and just stopped texting me.
to be fair, after our last encounter, i sent him a picture of me holding a sign that said “get well soon” with the message “this is for your attitude,” so we were all kind of over it at that point. also to be fair, i have zero reason to hold anything against this person and let the record show that i am simultaenously aware of this AND holding much against him!)
i immediately sent eli a text that said “did you just walk past me at the bowery” and then i sent another one that said “and by walk, i mean RUN crazily” (because i did not want to stroke his very large ego - that i had been working meticulously to decimate - by referring to his gait in an ethereal way, though it was extremely ethereal; he is a fey male.) and then peered out onto the patio, like a lunatic, to watch him read this text, chuckle to himself, and put his phone away, at which point i got up, pulled my denim cutoffs out of my ass and stomped all the way out to the patio to speak to him about what i had just witnessed.
"were you really going to ignore me?"
"i didn’t see you!!"
"i JUST saw you read your phone…"
"no, when i walked in-"
"yeah, but i just texted you and you read it and you knew i was here"
then he laughed and said i was crazy or something but i couldn’t hear because i was so drunk from tequila and riding the high of a psychotic episode and i turned around and walked back inside in the middle of whatever it was that he was telling me.
(I do also want to mention, in the spirit of full disclosure, that i was drenched in a unisex fragrance that this person used to wear/presumably still wears that i learned about from him. and we hugged. and it’s an extremely specific and rare fragrance. i died another death when i put all these pieces together.)
things returned to calm when i got back inside and i slowly died over the next hour to hour and a half before Dan came over and knelt down (he’s so tall, he needs to kneel. that’s how tall he is. it’s so cool. he’s so tall.) to talk to me about things that did not include:
we also didn’t talk about how cute he was, which was difficult but also appropriate.
what we DID talk about was that this was his 37th birthday, and that was so chill and i fell back in love with him because he is so tall and old (compared to me, i mean. i am 17) and i fetishize both of these things and they were so important in that moment that i forgave him his past indiscretions and had a funeral for everything that happened on this night pre-this moment
and a wedding.
(also letting the record show that i have no reason or right to hold anything against this person either for the events of this evening but that, simultaneously, i had a duffel bag full of things i was holding against him.)
Dan disappeared at some point after he flimsily suggested we join his table and i staunchly declined (by saying, “yeah sure”!).
in one final humiliation, in a night of events that were exclusively small humiliations, eli came over and convinced me that a person we both know, named Mara, pronounces her name “Meer-uh” as opposed to how every person in the world named Mara and any person in the world who pronounces the name Mara pronounces the name Mara, which is “Mah-ruh.”*
…because nothing tops a classic evening of mania and hysteria off better than having rudimentary knowledge challenged by a man you’ve effectively turned into a eunuch!
our antagonist, dan, was nowhere to be found at the end of the evening - and believe me, we (*i*) looked for him. discreetly… under the guise of not looking for him - and upon waking up in a fit of depression at 9am, i dyed my hair green on a whim. and now i am in bellevue.
but just for the wifi.
*in a colossal victory, that i have obtained an obscene amount of pleasure from, i confirmed that he was wrong about the pronunciation by asking a mutual friend… and yet, he remains convinced of his authority. RENDERING HIM A PSYCHO.
also, in a silent victory, dan texted me this today and i responded in a way that i meant to be sarcastic but that he will never understand.
Next Friday, I leave for the Amalfi Coast (and then Turkey, for the information of those interested. In killing me or in surprising me with a PJ back home… open to any and all versions of these possibilities.) and in a startling departure from my typical, frenetic last minute planning / throwing together of information gathered from various mouths and scraps of paper i’ve had people pencil shit down on*, I actually booked a flight and hotel weeks in advance!
*(like, how i drove cross country alone two years ago without planning a single thing and ended up: renting a car for $3000, nearly getting carjacked in memphis, getting called two racial slurs on stark ends of the derogatory epithet spectrum and running out of gas on a stretch of route 66 at 11pm somewhere in the deep southwest… after driving four miles on a stretch of route 66 that ceased being route 66 somewhere between mile zero and one and turned into the longest private driveway, at the end of which I was greeted, rather aggressively by an angry farmer and his very large, similarly expressioned, dog.)
Then, two days ago, I discovered a much nicer hotel and decided to call the original hotel to ask them, very politely, if I could please cancel my reservation, assuming this would of course be acceptable, since I’m not booked to stay there for another one and a half weeks.
Phone calls give me
the creeps crippling anxiety, as does the idea of communicating with someone who speaks a different language, from whom you need information and answers - especially considering the only Italian I know is limited to words needed to express the desperation of wanting to get out of my late night Tuesday/Thursday college Italian class in order to see my decade+ older boyfriend at the time. (lol… you guys. do u wanna tlk about that pic? lmk). “Pausa,” meaning “break” was my personal favorite. During these breaks, I’d alternatively not come back to class, feign illness or begin an hour long text conversation with Michael, the boyfriend, about how I was trying to get our professor to end class “presto”. “Finito”, obviously, another classic breakaway hit - so this was troublesome for me, but I did it.
I spoke to someone in grossly broken Italian - so broken, I’d dare call it smashed Italian, smashed to smithereens - and I requested I not be charged for the room because I was canceling with ample notice. The guy seemed pleasant (though, difficult to confirm pleasantries with the language barrier, I am now understanding) and asked that I email him the request and he would respond properly later, via “e-MA(y)IL”.
I did; then this email came to me this morning.
Among other things, like the very low cost of the room…
this email says, “non può disdire - sarebbe in penale,” which translates to “you cannot cancel. it would be a crime.”
A CRIME. I would be committing a crime by canceling this reservation 12 days in advance of my check-in, this guy says. A crime. Criminal activity.
I am casually scared because there’s no way I’m staying at this hotel now that I know it’s run by puritanical lunatics, but less so because I guess they can’t process american express cards and that’s what I gave them and when I don’t show up, I guess they’ll just be sitting there with a bunch of numbers that mean nothing to them. And that serves them right, because they don’t even allow credit cards to pay for the room, you have to pay in cash. And not since I was dating a drug dealer have I ever been traveling internationally with upwards of $700 on me. (part of this is a joke. hehe)
Whatever, I’m no criminal.
However, I did kill a person yesterday.
Not a person, but a fish with a person’s name. Anne Boleyn. She was a beta fish I bought when I was in the deepest throes of personal depression over a breakup with my most recent boyfriend… and the unrelenting winter temps. The pairing of these two things nearly brought my downfall!
I bought her and two other fish - Messalina and Rasputin. Messalina died at the hands of a friend who was meant to be watching the three of them. God knows what happened; upon my return, the body was nowhere to be found. Rasputin died shortly after, of reasons I associate with an inability to maintain homeostasis within the tank because of shock, which left him feeling emasculated and caused him great turmoil and eventually led him to commit suicide. I could be wrong, but that is my professional opinion.
Anne made it through the winter and through a harrowing journey from the west village to more south in the west village, wherein, I carried her to our new home for 6 blocks, splashing water all over myself and the streets of New York, nearly killing her at the hands of her micro SpongeBob-ian abode, when it collapsed on top of her, leaving her miraculously unscathed.
Last night, I was changing her fish water, as I’ve done every week for over half a year. I put her in an empty pico de gallo container while I cleaned her cage and when I went to pour her back into her clean tank, she fell into the sink. The drain was there of course, so there was only minimal terror.
I kept trying to grab her and put her into the tank, but she was flipping and flailing her little body and I couldn’t get a hold of her and when I did she would flip right back into the sink. So, I began pouring water over her to get her to float so i could grab her that way. No luck.
Finally, I got her in my hand and I was about to plop her back into the pdg container, but just then, she flipped out of my palm and got lodged in between the drain and the little space between the drain. I was grief stricken, shaking, no idea what to do, so i lifted the drain so i could put my hand in the hole and get her.
I didn’t know what else to do. So, I did that.
And then she fell into the pipes.
And now she is dead.
I killed Anne Boleyn and cried myself to sleep about it and I’m devastated and a criminal of many sorts.
Also, now i understand why people get so sad when dogs die. Compassione: Sono nuovo qui.