it’s weird when scaffolding gets taken down from a street you’ve only ever known with scaffolding. you walk down it like, “why is it…super daytime out? how did i get here? this is what this is supposed to look like? where are the metal bars that made the sidewalk lanes? people don’t know how to walk, this is chaos.”
to the guy hanging on the corner outside of the preschool: i am wearing shorts because it is fucking hot outside. i’m dressed nicely because i am heading to work. NONE OF THIS IS FOR YOU. i am not your “baby,” nor will i stop for you to give you my name and number. your comments of “beautiful” and “gorgeous” are not compliments. i am not a painting in a museum for you to admire.
also, your lip smacking is repulsive, not sexy.
so when i said sternly, “please leave me alone,” i REALLY meant, “fuck off, shit bag.”
"if ONE MORE PERSON slams me with their bag or body, i WILL lose it."
"PLEASE don’t dance in my space. you are behind me. i cannot see you. don’t you dare dance up my ass, then act annoyed when i turn around and almost collide with you."
"the amount of desperation in this room is making me queasy."
"oh yeah, that’s right. i HATE 8th avenue."
"DO NOT TOUCH MY ASS, YOU SHIT STICK."
"ugh. it’s HOT."
ahhhhh, feels good to be home.
i bought the dress.
i bought the dress even though i have no money, and even though i need so many other things, scads of practical, sensible, showbiz-and-apartment-and-survival related things.
i want to live the life of the person who belongs in this dress. i want to float down the streets of the west village. i want to drink something light and bubbly in the back garden of some quiet, forgotten restaurant. i want to paint my nails dove-brown and stain my lips deep red and not care at all whether this will attract too much attention.
i want to forget about being broke for awhile and wear this dress and feel like there is magic somewhere, somehow.