Items of Significant Note for this Year

2015 has been a busy! I shall join the throngs of others who compile an annual list of accomplishments:

• Number of loads of laundry: 730
• Express 15 items or less checkout lanes that I successfully managed to sneak 16 items on: 32
• Number of times I've been told I look fat in these pants: 1
• Number of pairs of pants that have been shredded into ribbons and lit on fire: 1
• Number of new recipes learned: 2
• Number of which were successfully received: 1
• Number of mandatory dental visits successfully avoided: 2
• Number of teeth that fell out: 0 (at least this year)
• Number of ER visits: 1
• Number of boxes of Triscuits thrown out after it was discovered they were responsible for ER visit: 2 (Note: I do not recommend running up a flight of steps while munching the "cracked black pepper & olive oil" kind due to the risk of inhaling said black pepper and choking, causing delayed 3am esophageal spasm which turns out to conveniently mimic heart attack symptoms.)
• Number of nice men who visited me in the ER and still liked me even after they saw ER hair: 1
• Number of popular movies referenced by peers that I have missed: 47
• Number of spiders seen in new home: 0.5
•  Number of relieved sighs over the comparison in spider inventory between previous basement apartment to current upper floor unit: 1,875
• Number of classes lined up to study relationship dynamics: 3
• Number already taken: 1 (unless you count 475 post-divorce self-help books)

Happy New Year! My main 2016 goal is to sneak 16 items onto at least thirty-THREE express checkout lanes. I'll keep you posted.

Can't we be together separately???

Apparently, art is driven by misery. At least in me. Well, maybe not art, but writing. Blog writing. Right now I am traveling and absolutely disconsolate so I shall seize the moment.

When I wrote "I have trust issues about guest rooms," little did I know I would be staying in one a mere few weeks later wishing I were using the experience as research for my post.

Everything wrong on this trip

-- Auditory Assault:

This house has ZERO insulation.

NONE. I can hear every conversation regardless of where it is happening, how loud it is or how many closed doors exist between me and those talking. The next door neighbor's dog sounds like it's on my lap. I can hear people peeing in bathrooms way at the other end of the house and then zipping up their pants. I swear I just heard someone tie their shoelaces.

My first night here, I bolted upright at 3am when I thought I heard a large rat in the wall scrambling furiously to get out.

Know what it was?

Someone unraveling the toilet paper roll.

Evidently, the bathroom is right next door to me and the toilet paper happens to be mounted on the same wall that my (shitty little) guest bed leans against and somehow, when I was torn from sleep by odd, muffled pawing noises in the wall, it took me a few to get my bearings. No, it was not an angry rodent trapped inside the sheetrock. It was just someone who drank a little too much water before bedtime.

I can also hear every conversation happening in the house at once. And noisy games of pool. Comedy channels.  Christmas songs blaring out of two hateful radios (one is not enough). And more: appliances running, dishes clanking, people hocking up lugies, phone conversations, bathroom habits, video games... absolutely nothing is private, concealed or sacred.

This isn't a house, it's a TENT. Do not be fooled.

I haven't slept in days.

--  No Room in the Guest Room:

Not really where I am but close enough.

There isn't a single clear surface in this guest room.

Right now I am typing on a laptop which is precariously balanced on a stack of papers. My glass of water is 4 feet away (there is no closer option) in a tiny clear area of about 3 inches between a broken, fluorescent light, two discarded monitors, a picture of Jesus, and a Mayan sandstone bowl with Christmasy red and green penises adorning the outside and stuffed with a tiny snowman.

I didn't realize the Mayans celebrated Christmas.

Or penises.

(Scratch that... all cultures probably celebrated penises.)

-- No Boundaries:

Someone nearly walked in on me when I was about to change my maxipad because NO ONE understands that you're not supposed to knock on the door AS YOU'RE ENTERING. Doors separate things! Respect the door!!

-- No Downtime:

No one in this house seems to need personal space. Doesn't anyone want to curl up in a corner and read, for chrissake? We have been interacting for the last 12 hours. Isn't that enough? Now you want to play a game, too?? I didn't grow up with 15 siblings and I'm not used to this level of togetherness!

From Dr. Carmella's Guide to Understanding the Introverted

As I am typing, I am glancing at the clock, relieved bedtime will soon be here and I just heard someone announce "Let's watch a movie!!"

AUGH!!

I have trust issues about guest rooms

I have trust issues about sleeping over other people's houses.

Their bed is always rock hard and uncomfortable and it's always topped with a mattress encased in stiff plastic to protect it from whoever must regularly sleep (and pee) there. The sheets are always cheap and shitty and look like last Thanksgiving's rumpled tablecloth. There's never any bedside table or anything to put a glass of water on. You have to settle for the empty cardboard sock insert on the floor.

People are always writing in to the Carolyn Hax advice column, "WHYYY won't my guest sleep over? They INSIST on staying in a hotel and I just can't understand!"

Well, the above happened to your guest at some point in their life. That's why!

When your guest visits, they will be tired and worn and likely rediscover they have a cat allergy (no, it's not enough to vacuum!). They'll be eager for a change of clothes and some down time. The room may be proffered but amenities such as surfaces, tissues and privacy will be defunct and this will not go unnoticed by your guest.

They will have no choice but to snag a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom (but it's the extra cheap, thin kind, AND there'll barely be enough of it for a proper nose-blowing and no place to properly throw it away so they must stuff snot rags back into their luggage).

Since there's no night table, there's no lamp with which to read. The guest must make do with the interrogation bulb swinging from the ceiling.

Turning off this light when ready to sleep will become a great arctic adventure since hosts always turn off the heat ("we sleep better!"). There is no choice but for the guest to climb out of bed into the freezing air, turn off the light and navigate back through the inky blackness while trying to avoid your moving boxes and children's toys.

This next fact is inexplicable but true: somehow hosts like to crack open their bedroom door at night. Privacy is never a concern, nor is the idea of engendering morbid embarrassment in the guest when they need to use the facilities at 2 and 4am.

They'll worry about waking everyone in the house up, and rightly so, because they will.

And boy, will they will hear about it in the morning.

"Did you sleep through the night?" the host will sweetly ask while pouring coffee.

"Yes," they'll lie, in order not to hurt anyone's feelings. "Everything is great!"

"I think I heard you up," they'll add. "Were you feeling okay?

Of COURSE you heard them up. The bedroom door was wide open.

The guest may feel compelled to explain the scintillating details of their intestinal health. One could only hope that the response would serve as proper punishment, benefiting future guests.

Later that night, instead of counting sheep, the guest will count the number of bad decisions they've made in life which led to this singular point, in your guest room.

THAT, my friends, is how hotel memberships are born!

FREE: PANTS.

1. I just got home and discovered my computer has been shutting down for the last 10 hours. I realize Windows is slow but seriously? It needs 10 hours to shut down now?

2. Unprompted, someone told me I look fat in these pants so I am cutting them into tiny ribbons, lighting them on fire and throwing them off my balcony right now.

3. The lunch lady sweetly informed me she had the flu as she heaped a pile of veggies onto my plate. I have not yet had my flu shot. (Unless you count today's cauliflower.)

4. Tomorrow I have a dental appointment and may need someone to distract me from my anxiety by exposing me to something I fear even more and lowering a tarantula onto my face during the procedure.

5. Just kidding, don't do number 4 unless you have a defibrillator handy.

Just one person say it sounds like I have a case of the Mondays...!!

--Great. I'll call you from the emergency room when my eyes explode.

Maybe it was brought on by whatever disgusting filth the dog rolled in. Maybe colonies of fecal bacteria disbursed from his ruffled and soapy fur like little aeronautic Gossamer spiders wafting through the air during last night's emergency bath. Or maybe the germs just splashed on my face. Whatever the cause, I now have pinkeye.

Halfway through the work day, I noticed my eye clouding over and burning. By day's end, it was raging red. No doctor's office was open by then but I live across the street from a CVS Minute Clinic and stopped there on my way home.

I walked in and the nurse stared in horror at my right eye. "What brings you here?" she asked.

"I think I have pinkeye."

She leaned forward and stared intently, eyes narrowed into little slits, assessing contaminant risk. Then with a slight measure of panic but still focused keenly on my oozing orb, she reached behind her and produced a bottle of antibacterial gel.

"Here," she said, and glorped a hefty pile of gel onto my hands. "Rub it in" she commanded. Then she took a handsome helping of the stuff for herself.

"Ok, now can I have your drivers license and insurance card?" she said, sighing in relief, face relaxing.

I gave her my insurance information, self-conscious of my infected fingers reaching into my wallet, positing bacteria along the way as I felt around. I handed her the cards and she eyed my hand as if I were one of The Infected*** before gingerly taking them.

The nurse then handed me a form, and froze, hands outstretched, realizing too late she had proffered her only pen to the diseased being in front of her. "You can KEEP the pen!" she hastily added, and I immediately understood this was not a gift so much as a command.

She began examining me. "Yep, it's pinkeye. Now what will you DO with your eye makeup?" She stood back, arms crossed defensively and waited for the correct answer.

Um. Lick it before applying heavily?

"I guess I will throw it all out and just buy new stuff," I said shyly.

"That's RIGHT!" she said. "But what will you DO in the meantime, WHILE you're using the medicine?"

I wished she would just spout out the canned recommendations instead of putting me through grade school question & answer period. But I complied. "I won't wear any, I guess."

"VERY GOOD!" she sang. I passed.

Then she tested me for a sinus infection by pumping air into my ears, a new experience for me. "If your eardrums flap in the wind, then your sinuses are clear," she said. If there was fluid behind them, they would be completely still. "We're testing for this because it's a common cause of pinkeye." I passed that with flying colors, at least.

"Are you sure you weren't around anyone with pinkeye recently?"

"No one I know has pinkeye," I responded.

"This is a VERY. CONTAGIOUS. condition. VERY. It's very odd that you would have it without being exposed to it."

I shrugged. "Beats me."

Her eyes narrowed again. "Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

I wanted to say, "yes, I forgot my hall pass" but demurred. "Oh! Last week I had dental surgery. Could that have anything to do with it?"

She brightened, happy that my oral trauma might lay claim to the disease overtaking my head. "Possibly!" she purred. "YES and your lymph nodes are all swollen too. I bet that's it!"

Thanks, I wanted to tell her. Glad to bring you so much joy.

She wrote me a prescription for Vigamox and sent me home. "Put drops in BOTH eyes!" she called after me urgently. "Even if you don't think you need to, DO IT!"

The first time I put the drops in, my eyes burned like I'd thrown acid on them, and then turned even more red, but not a blood-vessely-red, more like a scarlet-fever-chartreuse. Not an ounce of white existed.

I stared at myself in the mirror trying to refrain from clawing at them to relieve the itch. Then I called the pharmacist just to double-check that I wasn't having some kind of allergic reaction. After an extended pause, he put down his bong to look it up online.

"hmmmmm... hold on a minute, let me see... (long silence) Nope, doesn't seem like it's supposed to be painful and itchy when you put the eyedrops in," he said. "But try again tomorrow and if it's still a problem, go back to the clinic."

Great, I thought. I'll call you from the emergency room when my eyes explode.

This morning though, I was okay. The drops aren't bothering me anymore and even seem to be working. But it's loads of fun to walk around work red-eyed and teary and watch my coworkers either prepare to run from The Infected or place silent bets on my condition.

______________________________________
***just see the movie "28 Days Later"

--Me and my bubbly personality

This is what I felt like

So I'm standing in line at Marshalls buying a pillow and a fake plant when the woman in front of me accosted me. "That is soooo pretty! OMG! Where did you find it?"

"In the back," I point.

"Oh haha! You are SO bubbly! I love your personality! You know, I love this store. And HomeGoods too. I spent $1,000 there on house stuff. It's fantastic!"

"Yeah, I like that place too," I offered.

"YES! My husband and I were buying this teak wooden outdoor table and I thought $250 omg that's too much but we loved it and bought it anyway. THEN I called my friends from North Carolina, that's where we get ALL our furniture, and they priced it out down there, it would have been $1400! So see. That place is addictive."

Me (smiling weakly): "mmm hmm." (thinking WHY won't the cashier hurry the FUCK UP!)

Her: "OH you are such a people person! Would you be interested in a makeover? I LOVE your skin. You would just love these products, they are amazing. I mean, look at MY skin. A few years ago it looked much MUCH older. Mary Kay cosmetics. They are the BEST."

Me: "That's nice but I'm not really into makeovers, I like doing my own routine."

Her: "OH it's not like that! I promise! We don't touch anyone, we're not licensed to touch anybody. So we just offer you any makeup you want and you get to pick out what you want to try for your makeover. Call me for an appointment! There's NO obligation and you don't have to buy anything, it's free to try all the stuff."

She pressed a business card in my hand, the obnoxious kind that needs to scream "SALES!" so loudly that it tents out into a miniature pamphlet.

Me: "uh, you know I basically work two jobs and just do not have time for anything else but thanks anyway."

Her: "TWO jobs? You should come work for me. I make 6 figures a year, then you wouldn't have to work so much. Don't you want to make six figures? I couldn't believe it the first year I made that. And they gave me a pink cadillac and everything. I've had 6 cars since I've been working for them. I miss the pink cadillac though, that was a good car."

She stared wistfully out the window and I paid for my stuff and tried to flee. She ran after me.

"See, there's my car now! Here, I'll press the keychain -- look, there are the lights! It's a Saturn."

Me: "That's very nice. I heard Mary Kay treats their salespeople well and I remember hearing that the best ones can sometimes get cars."

Her: "What? Salesperson? No, I'm not a salesperson. I don't sell anything. Everyone thinks I sell stuff, I don't. Mary Kay just gives this to me. You could have the same exact thing too you know. It's not just me, they treat EVERYONE this way. There are women making as much as me only two months into it."

Me: "No thanks, I love what I do and am not interested in anything else." (Thinking inside "yeah right! Mary Kay throws money at people for NO reason! Sure. Great business model, one sure to keep a company going for decades.")

I can smell an MLM scheme a mile away. MLM = multi-level marketing and desperate followers have the intensity of religious zealots, except they worship get-rich-quick schemes instead of gods. NuSkin, A&L Williams Insurance, Herbalife, Amway... those are all flake companies that infect the weak-minded and turn them into hysterical humanoids that, like the cast of zombies in 28 Days Later, chase down every living soul left in the desperate attempt to suck out their lifeblood and turn them into one of their own.

Her: "OH what do you do? You love it that much! That's really great but you know who wouldn't want to make as much as me."

Me: "Um, I work with computers. Anyway I gotta go."

Her: "Well look at my website or call me if you change your mind. You wouldn't believe the stuff we have, the same lotion that J. Lo has for $600, we have and it's only $30. Vitamins A, C, & E. Antioxidants, very good for the skin. One time of trying it and you would be amazed. And you get all your money back if you don't like it. No matter what. Mary Kay just reimburses me, how's that? I mean, I have women all the time who try stuff and send it back saying 'I didn't really like this lipstick color' and that's fine. I could send it back to Mary Kay. Of course most of the time I just eat the cost because I make so much it's not worth the time to fill out the paperwork but still. You should try it!"

The whole time I was speed-walking towards my car, an ever-widening chasm between us, shouting as I got farther away. "OH be careful of that oncoming car! It was so nice to meet you. I hope to hear from you. I love people! I'm going into HomeGoods now, take care!"

Lesson learned: if you grunt the wrong way, someone might fall for your "bubbly" personality and try to recruit (infect) you. Warning!

32 Hilarious Tweets That Perfectly Sum Up Being A Woman

Wow: "Don't hate the player, hate the social construct of performative masculinity, which encourages weak men to conform to a sexist narrative."

http://www.buzzfeed.com/hannahjewell/hilarious-tweets-about-being-a-woman


(Sent from my phone)

I wish I was exaggerating

Insurance company: "Well, we may not be able to cover the hotel stay."

Me: "Why?"

Insurance company: "Well, because your home would only have been uninhabitable if you had no running water."

Me: "But we didn't have running water!"

Insurance company: "But that was because you CHOSE to turn off the water."

Me: "The alternative was to let water pour through my unit into my downstairs neighbor's unit all night until a plumber would arrive?"

Insurance company: "Well, yes."

Me: "But then the damage would have cost more than the hotel!"

Insurance company: "Right... well, we'll see...."

(This is turning into its own sit-com!)

(Sent from my phone)

Filed under 'It's a tough job but somebody's gotta do it'

"I don't know why people would want Chris Evans to hold their boobs when I'll do it." -My boyfriend (RE: 23 Tumblr Posts that Hilarious Sum Up Having Boobs)

-- The Fridge Debacle, AKA Craigslist FAIL

I are smart!

So, I decided to sell my fridge on Craigslist instead of paying Sears $15 to remove it.

I thought this was smart. Not only will I not pay but someone will pay me! I am brilliant!

I found someone on eBay who sold the same exact same fridge for $650 and confidently posted my ad.

Crickets.

I posted it again, thinking something must have gone wrong. That never happens. Everything disappears off Craigslist. Hell, I once sold a recipe box I found in the trash and made $2. There's a buyer for everything.

No response to my reposting.

The delivery date for the new unit inched closer and I began to fear I'd have to pay someone to remove the old fridge. I called every used appliance store in the area to ask if they would buy my fridge.

"Sorry, your fridge is a piece of shit," they all said. "We don't go near those."

How did a guy sell this thing on eBay for $650?!?

One friend said, "Oh, that's because appliances do better on eBay than Craigslist."

Fine, maybe I'll sell it on eBay then.

I began looking up what that entailed and learned that it would require an extra $350 for freight shipping AND my own packing and "crating," whatever the fuck that meant.

That sure sounded like a whole hell of a lot more work than the original plan of just holding open the front door while someone carted it away and handed me a wad of cash.

Fuckit, I thought. I'll just lower the price again. It's STILL better than paying someone money to haul it away.

The day before the new fridge was to arrive, no one had responded and I was desperate. I dropped the price all the way down to $150.

"Must go immediately," I wrote, realizing that while I'd already made several terrible mistakes about this whole situation, having the old fridge in the house when the new one arrived was not going to be one of them if I could help it, dammit.

A guy finally called. "I can come get it tonight."

I raced home from work and invited a friend to join me to fulfill Craigslist anti-serial killer protocols set by my dad, paying for dinner in exchange for gender protection. (Serial killers disguised as appliance buyers are less likely to dismember females in the presence of her friends; it's a well-known scientific fact.)

Appliance-buyer texted me. "Will you have someone around that can help me load the fridge into my truck?"

Ah, testing out the waters, I see. "Will there be anyone present to witness the chain-saw I'll be carrying?" (And specifically, will this person be strong enough to carry a fridge, meaning, will they be able to intercept the activation of the on switch for my chain saw? These are important questions for any buyer.)

"Sorry, someone will be here but they have a bad back," I replied, meaning, "Are you fucking kidding me, I'm practically giving this thing away, there is no way in hell I am supplying you with an assistant, just get it the fuck out of my house! And know that 'back issues' will not prevent my bodyguard from wrangling your chainsaw away so save that for your next 'purchase'!"

"No worries," he politely replied. "I'll bring an assistant."

Now I felt better that this was a legit deal, since no one should show up to buy a fridge alone.

Appliance Buyer showed up a little while later, sans chainsaw. He was half my size and completely uninterested in changing that by obtaining extra protein from my corpse for nourishment, to my great relief.

Although he was slight, he and his assistant got to work and managed to wrangle a behemoth of an appliance the size of a small baby elephant out of my kitchen, into the hall and down a full flight of stairs to the front door.

Small baby elephant. It's even gray like one.

The whole escapade nearly sent my anxiety levels through the roof, especially when I saw them tipping the fridge over the top lip of the staircase so they could "slide" it down while "controlling" descent by parking themselves under it, pitting their tiny human muscles against the laws of physics and power of gravity.

"Should I let go now? WHEEEE!!"

"Please don't die, please don't die," I chanted inside, as if that were a powerful enough invocation to reach whatever deity was on call for the prevention of imminent death by crushing.

The two men managed to slide the fridge all the way to the front door and heaved it upright. I began to breath again. All seemed to be going smoothly.

Until the refrigerator got stuck in the front door.

Fuck! It won't fit!

I spent the next 2 hours sitting on the steps and watching the men disassemble both my front door AND the doors of the fridge while heat in the form of molecules shaped like dollar signs flew out the gaping hole where the front door used to be and disappeared deep into the cold winter night.

Disassembly fail.

I started to feel so terrible at seeing his struggle that when Appliance Buyer finally finished and handed me $150, the agreed-upon price, I handed him back $50 -- I could not, in good conscience, take more.

Let him use the $50 towards a chainsaw upgrade.

After they left and I was $100 richer, I surveyed the kitchen.

I had emptied the fridge contents onto the counter and my cheap ass could not bring myself to throw even a single bit of food away.

I decided to store all of it outside in the cold until I could bring it to work and put it in the communal fridge until my new unit arrived.

Satisfied at the conclusion of lessons events, I drifted into a deep sleep.

I express my stress in filenames

The next morning while rushing to work, I needed to brake suddenly, causing the bag of food in the back to fling forward and all the food to fly out.

A half-filled container of chicken broth, which had been worth only $2 (but I had refused to dispose) upended, saturating the carpet in sticky meat juice. It will probably cost $100 to clean. Add that to the $15 cost of dinner for the bodyguard AND the heightened electric bill, and net proceeds now lean in favor of Sears removal.

Universe: 1; Me: 0.

--Paralyzed by Produce

Every time I go to the supermarket, I find myself paralyzed in front of the peppers.

I stand there, mesmerized by the vibrant autumnal colors and think I want to be the kind of person who eats anthocyanins.

And so I buy a bag.

I smile smugly while rolling a dense, plump pepper around my palm. I can already see, in my mind's eye, the sharp blade of my favorite serrated knife slicing the firm flesh into little green, red, yellow and orange strips that I can snack on at my desk.

I am happy because I have found The Perfect Afternoon Hunger Antidote.

I think about this all the way to the checkout counter where I buy the peppers.

This is important, because at this point, I still believe I will eat them.

I drive home thinking about the summer I ate a red pepper many mornings on the way to work. Munched on it like it was an apple, cutting the top off and scooping out the insides so I could while away a 30-minute commute consuming carotenoids for breakfast.

I let myself pretend I am still this person.

I lovingly unload the peppers from their grocery bag and prop them on the top shelf of the fridge. Top priority. No crisper for you, I think. I understand that whatever I cannot see, I will not eat, and so I know better than to banish such beautiful peppers to the chilly morgue of the bottom drawer.

Sometimes I will think about cutting them up RIGHT THEN. But I've just been food shopping and I am hungry. So I grab dinner, peppers forgotten.

The next morning, I rush out of the house.

Despite rushing out of the house every single morning since I was five years old, I still have not learned that morning is NOT THE TIME TO ADD TO MY ROUTINE.

I open the fridge; a regular but futile activity I engage in while frantically assessing the (lack of) breakfast material.

I am not thinking about peppers.

I am thinking about bacon.

But I didn't buy bacon.

I never buy bacon because I want to be the kind of person who eats anthocyanins and not carcinogens but my groggy brain is more honest now than whatever concerned citizen I had become last night. NOW the thought of gobbling raw, gassy peppers for breakfast is repulsive. But what about the afternoon snack? I can eat them then, I think, enthusiastically.

But they need to be slain! Waaaay too much needs to happen to convert these bright vegetables into edible strips.

I toss an apple into my bag, slam the fridge door and burst out the door like a gaunt greyhound in ketosis.

This entire scene repeats every morning.

This morning I felt slightly guilty over abandoning my beloved peppers. I am still repulsed by the thought of munching on flesh not dissimilar in consistency to a boneless index finger as a breakfast food, but the snack idea still seems viable. "I'll just BRING the pepper to work and cut it up there" I think. I even let myself imagine myself walking into the breakroom during a relaxed afternoon, that's how much I like to fool myself.

 So this time I tossed them into my bag with an apple and left for work. And promptly forgot all about my grand plans to slice peppers and snack on them throughout the day until quitting time, when I reached for my car keys and discovered the forgotten bag, now warm, moist and eager to decay in the dank, fetid surroundings of my backpack.

The peppers, although more forgiving than most veggies, have wilted slightly from the forced hiatus in my dark bag. But they are not inedible!

Tomorrow, I say. Tomorrow I will deliver carotenoids to my cells.

Repeat this scene for the rest of the week.

Sunday. Foodshopping day.

I find myself standing in front of the peppers. They look so beautiful, so... FRESH. These are firm peppers, unlike their abused counterparts in my bag.

I buy a new sack, thinking "THESE I will slice. The others, I will cook. Maybe in a nice marinara sauce."

Except I don't cook them. I watch their flesh get more and more wrinkled along with my brow as the weight of food wasting while countless starve carves little worried notches between my eyes and into my forehead.

Tomorrow, I shall buy more peppers.

Why introverts blog

25 floors above Time Square and all I want to do is floss

So it's Saturday night and I'm 25 floors above Times Square and all I want to do is floss. This is how you can tell a true introvert! I'm taking a class tomorrow morning and have to get up at fucked o'clock. At least for $400/night the hotel provides free coffee. If I also steal the toiletries, I can recoup maybe another $1.73.

Should it bother me that Google has suggested "[hotel] bedbugs" as the number two keyword when I look up this place? But the feather pillows are so soft and I'm so tired that I don't even care if it's infested. It feels damn nice right about now.

I'm good

When people ask how your life is going, isn't the instinct always to say, "I'm good!" Even if this is what's happening?