I saw this girl walking down the street just now, into the new building (the luxury condos) and she was walking really fast, and kept her hand on her purse in front of her. For some reason I thought this funny way of walking was because she was hiding something. Maybe she was fleeing a scene. That's ridiculous though.

These new kids moved in around the corner and the other night they were having a party and singing along to music. It kept me up. I knew the song, though, it was a record by a band whom I've met here in New York City. I thought how strange to be kept awake by this voice. The next time I see this singer, I thought, I'll tell them about this. That I was kept up at night by the sound of their voice. But that's sort of creepy right? Telling someone that? Maybe it's creepier to live in Brooklyn and be upset about being kept up by the sound of neighbors singing. But you know, maybe it's also creepy to move to Brooklyn and pay too much for an apartment, just so that you can stay up all night getting drunk with your college friends, screaming along to your favorite records with the windows open. No one gets through life without being creepy.

It's been way too long. I sometimes want to be able to catalog everything I do here, on the blog, but maybe that's silly.

News from the past, from corners of the City. It's hard to breathe here, there's too much plaster dust in the air. Too many fumes. The renovations of apartments turns them, for a little while at least, toxic. These are the scale of the inconveniences our hero's ex is subjected to. An excuse to get out of town, to the coast, the lake, the river, the mountains. Some luxurious escape because the apartment isn't done yet. Scott Panther no longer takes the train. Those days are over. Maybe he would, if he was drunk, and with a big group of people. Or if someone (a cute milk-fed queer bro, hairy knuckles, a sport and/or car fanatic dared him to. No, of his own, Scott only takes cars. He's rich now. He worked hard, pretty hard for a few years. And he played hard. And all the hard work is paying off. He takes expensive vacations, and he's earned them. His friends are so happy for him. His friends' husbands say "Yeah well you have all this money if you're a queer and don't have a wife and baby to support." His friends husbands are right. But I'm queer and I don't have a wife or a baby to support and I don't go on these kind of fantastic trips. Is it that I haven't worked hard enough? I've certainly never made as much money as the Panther. But the Panther comes from money, I guess. The glory of being an only child.

Who actually gets what they deserve, right? I think that to feel like you actually have everything you deserve, that might be scary. At least as horrifying as feeling constantly deprived (I know that feeling). I think the only feeling that's not scary or morally wrong is to feel over-gifted all the time. I keep harping on this: we should be sending thank-you notes to waiters.

There's a deli in town that makes great sandwiches and they deliver all night, and they take credit card. They don't advertise this but some people just know. Scott Panther and I used to order from them all the time, at his old apartment (which wasn't very nice, not even a renovation could save it). We used to call in the middle of the night, after we'd have whatever form of sex we were going to have that night, and ask them to bring us fancy, elaborate sandwiches and European sodas. His room mate would usually ask them to bring her cigarettes, and a candy bar. They'd ask which kind, she'd give them some ideas but not a decision. The poor delivery guy would bike over at 4 or 5 in the morning and Scott would sign the credit card receipt and send him on his way. After the second time I found out that Scott wasn't tipping the delivery guy. I was mortified and I still am. But since then, from what I've overheard, he's worked really hard, and deserves happiness. Happiness and what else. I don't hold a grudge, I just think everyone could stand to be more thankful.

I've been lightly using the internet to hit on this cute guy. Last week I think I saw him on the train but we both pretended not to recognize each other. I think it was because I seem less attractive (older? younger? less masculine? chubbier?) than his imaginary extrapolation of my photos. Or maybe I think he was less attractive than his photos. Two can play at that game. Or maybe it wasn't him. Anyway, there's been nothing online and to be fair I'm too chicken and too distracted and too busy to follow up. I like the idea of a hermetically-sealed interaction, though. Hello and goodbye. Nice to meet and have known you.

They say that the future of space travel will be something along those lines. It will be bending the fabric of space-time. To make it buckle around you, so that you end up at another point in the fabric of the universe, but without a trail. It will be as if you were never there to begin with.

Which sounds, to me, like it entails so much cleaning.

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