One of these mornings, bright and fair, hitch on my wings I'm gonna try the air

Bobo took this photo of me over the summer (when I still had access to my roof). This is the face I make most of the time. Some people think I look mean, like I'm really snobby, so they never become friends with me. Other people find this attractive, want to wake up next to this face. Go figure. I feel like my heart is too soft. I feel sorry for people that I have no rational sympathy for. I ache to correct the grammar of an insult. That's my problem, really, I'm Too Nice. Maybe that's not true, I'm not too nice. I just feel too much. Sounds much better, doesn't it?

Got tickets to the opera last week, with a date. My lovely friend Lola got us comps for the 11th row or something. Incredible. We went to see Salome. At first, I thought this would be romantic: dance of the seven veils, seduction, etc. Forgot that the second half of the play is Salome making out with a decapitated head. I had nothing to wear to the opera, so my resourceful and stylish date officially lent me samples from the designer he works for. I felt very glamorous and we went out for gazpacho afterward.

Went to a dance party for the New Yorker Festival on Friday night at Hiro Ballroom, with the impossibly glamorous Trannibals gang. (Am I the only one who likes that name? We can choose a new name). We got there early so that we could start drinking early. The ever-glamorous Lauren and I approached the surly bartender and ordered two Long Island Iced Teas. We are busy girls. Bartender rolled his eyes, said "No" and walked away. We waited for himt o come back to us and repeated our order.

"Actually, it's our policy not to serve Long Island Iced Teas." He said.

"Why not?"

"Because nobody needs four types of liquor."

"Okay. Then just give us three types." This seemed like a reasonable offer. He declined. Lauren and I wondered if bartender had been able to somehow divine that that I had two vodka tonics before we got on the train, that we had been drinking tequila in the line outside, or that we had brought in a flask with us. We ordered vodka gimlets with no ice. Thank you. Danced my little butt off, made out for a bit (she never stops). They were serviung free pizza at the New Yorker Dance Party, for the revelers. Mildly offensive, but then again everything offends me these days.

Saturday I had a vicious hangover, surprise. Cleaned like a maniac went to the gym cooked plantains for lunch dropped acid and went to see Stereolab walked around making fun of people's outfits in the LES retreated to Queens to eat candy. Sunday met up with Joanna and felt like a zombie.

I feel really pulled in a bunch of directions at once. Uneasy with the messes I'm making for myself. I wish I was tidier. Like physically: I wish I ate better and cleaned my room. But also psychically: I wish I finished one conversation before starting another. I complain loudly and often that people don't like me / think I'm cute / want to sleep with me / take me or my fucked up "feelings" seriously. I do too much, but none of it is measurable. It's hard to put: I'm working really hard but I'm not going anywhere. It doesn't show. It takes tremendous strength, like a rubber band, to hold things together.

I feel like that today: like a ball of rubber bands. Bouncy, taut, and a pretty fucking useless hobby. Leave me in your desk, please.

I just wish I had time to do things that make me feel better. Cook, go to the gym or yoga or something, spend actual leisure time with my friends without being on a fucking schedule 24 hours a day. Hopefully these things will come along soon. I slept for 11 hours last night, that seems like a good start.

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