Hot Child In New York City

After 3 coats of white paint, only a faint residue of purple peeked through the bedroom wall of my bare apartment. I’d packed up, lugged what needed storing down the street and, at the very last minute, fixed up the plenty of damages the place had incurred on my 7 months of living there’s behalf. At the end of the grueling line of chores, I sat in my empty room with light tears of memory, excitement, slight fright and a ton of exhaustion. First off, I loved that apartment- its exposed brick, the closeness of it to all things rainbow and gay in New York, the gym so shortly away I could wear spandex out my door and not feel the 20 degree weather sting my bare legs, my roommate’s cat of a thousand personalities, my roommates, period, the stubborn shower, my egg-crated mattress, and, bitch or not to paint back, my eye-shocking purple wall. Second off, I was leaving a hand and footful of amazing people, both old and new to my life. In the scheme of it all, 3 months will barely make a dent on these relationships, and of course, true friendship knows no physical distance –

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The majority of the world will adorn in scarves for the next few months, so for all hipster intents and purposes, a recommendation to hide your scarves. Truth be told, I hate scarves. Growing up in Florida, I never had to form the habit. I absolutely despise seeing them in the dead of summer, claiming to be fashionable. They are unnecessary, they make me claustrophobic and itchy, and most importantly, they window-dress my assets. I refuse. Or well, I did refuse them – until it starting hitting like 20 degrees on the reg, and I began freezing my you know whats off. The other day especially. I looked down at my phone to confirm that it was roughly 15 degrees, and, of course, it said 39 degrees instead (not quite freezing point, yet). First thought, “You’re wrong, idiot phone, it is freezing.” I imagined it talked back to me, “I’m a smart phone, and you’re the idiot, go buy a scarf.” So my second thought was, “Dear Lord, if this is a touch under 40, what’s a touch under 10 going to be like, other than death?” And then it turned completely dark outside. It was just past 5.

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I don’t actually have a “boy bucket list”, but if I did, last night added a check box to the list. Two boxes, actually. One: Date a musician Two: Break that musician’s heart so he can write a depressingly sweet love song about me I clearly went to a show last night. It was friend of a friend-Trey Lockerbie, he was opening for Joe Firstman. Both were angelic, and both singer/songwriters- the best kind. They moved back and forth from guitar to piano, holding strong a serene voice on each. You could see it in their closed eyes – they were so connected to their music, as they sang of broken hearts and happy hearts, open hearts and weary hearts. Of any of all of those heart conditions, I wanted to be the cause. From Joe’s song, Pretty Things (an awesome song, take a listen) I’ve been reading all the letters that you wrote me All the fairy tales you’ve sold me, and all the pretty things you said. Can’t stop thinking ‘bout the way that you control me, and how you wish you’d never known me How I wish you’d come and hold me, hold me, hold me.

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How many times have we heard it or told ourselves “it’s only in the movies”? I mean, a ton, right? Our pants were always soaked when those winged monkeys attacked in The Wizard of Oz- our moms would comfort us by saying it’s not real, it’s only in the movies. Or as women, it’s girls night and our eyes are soaked now as Noah tells Allie, “It wasn’t over. It still isn’t over”. Yeah, that hopeful bullshit only happens in the movies, too. But yesterday, I had a big screen moment, a real one, live in my life’s flesh. I was standing on the corner of 59th and Lexington, facing a Bloomingdales, the rain hitting at a tolerable rate compared to its earlier downfall. My cross light said wait, but it’s not what I wanted it to read-I was late and standing pretty impatiently (pretty, of course, too). I saw my rival light turn yellow and warmed up my leg for the step. Before I could even lift a toe and as fast as those Hanson brothers came and left, a bus sped past me. It kicked a wave of street water in my near face;

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On the train today, there were two (opposite of classy) women sitting across from each other. They were shouting about their deadbeat men, and here’s one of the women’s stories: Da other morning, I tell him I am comin’ over at 6 and your broke ass is takin’ me to dinner. I had put on my gold and all and I git there and he’s sittin’ on da couch sayin’ he ain’t ready. And I said, well hell boy I told you 6, you best be ready. He said I know, I know but I need to shower and get high, you gotta gimme mah space girl. I asked what da hell he been doin’ all day, and he ain’t got no good answer. I told him, listen, if I tell you I’ma be at yo place at 6 and your dumb ass is takin me to dinner, then you better have got up, got showered, and got high before I git there at 6. My stop was seconds away so I tried to hold my laughter under my breath. What a keeper of a woman, though -brushing aside his being broke, lazy or doing drugs, and just raggin’ on

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Ludis could barely stand without swaying. Whether his sway was to the beat of his guitar playing or his long night of alcohol consumption is undetermined, but Leah and I joined in either way. Leah clapped to resemble a 9-piece drum set and I was on lead vocals to complete the 3-man pop-up band. For close to 12 minutes, we loitered a Greenwich street corner performing a modern rendition of Stand By Me. A few innocent bystanders had the pleasure of our melody- some chose to rock out, others chose to swiftly breeze by. After our 12 minutes of fame, the band needed more fuel, and falafel was the unanimous desire. “I want meat in mine,” demanded Ludis. Homelessness doesn’t denote a lack of fine taste, and Ludis felt fully entitled to the most expensive pita on the menu. Leah and I split the 10 buck bill and dove into the grub. We weren’t half way through chewing our first bite before Ludis announced, “Mine ain’t meat, mine ain’t meat.” White tahini sauce dripped down his contrasting chin. We dug through our sandwiches, but none of them were meat. “I want meat, ain’t no meat in mine.” “Ain’t no meat

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