The best friend's company, finger-licking good grease, a couple of Bellini's, and Horlick's dinosaur, are always good for the dipping spirits.
It really doesn't take much to make me happy.
It sometimes surprises me how often I'm unhappy.
The nights I sew to replace small talk and schmoozing parties.
The nights I put on Catpower and write.
Really. Do I actively seek it?
Maybe because between plastered smiles and clinking champagne flutes
And trying so hard to quash the rolling eyes and the anti-sociable antics that now define my social life,
I know that I only want to be surrounded by people who truely interest me.
I don't mean that in any pompus condescending way.
Elitist, yes. Only in that I crave to be engaged. Let me want to look you in the eye and smile so that the fine lines that have made the corners of my eyes home show. Tell me a story. About designing typefaces, your children's diet preferences, Bach chorales, poppy fields in summer, silk worms and locusts. I don't care what you do. I only care that you tell a good story.
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The maladies of urban life.
At 16 you are depressed about: boys. grades. baby fat.
At 21 you are depressed about: boys. career directions. stretch marks.
At 26 you are depressed about: boys. office politics. declining metabolism.
At every age you always think it's all too much to bear. That sometimes it'd be nice to share the load with someone else (if not for the horse pride).
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I'm going to try and sleep properly tonight.
Wish me luck.
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