Skip to main content

it was written....

Basically my life right now:

5 am: Alarm goes off to get my fat ass to the gym.
5:10 am: Snooze.
5:30 am: snooze.
5:40 am: Thinks I snooze, actually turns off alarm
6:45 am: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. *hastily throws on some semi-clean clothing and rushes out the door*
7 am: Begins commute to NYC for work. Listens to depressing news radio about how Donald Trump could actually be president. Makes mental note to never stay at one of his hotels. Unless, obviously, I find a dope Groupon.
9 am - 5 pm: Works tirelessly and never checks cell phone, or social media, or takes too many personal breaks to wander aimlessly around the city. (sarcasm obviously. I do work hard as shit though. I"m just slightly a.d.d.))
6 pm: Contemplates the amazing work out I'm going to have. Plans out outfit.
7 pm: Passes liquor store on the way home.
10 pm: After 2 hours of binge watching Netflix original programming, finds self in front of fridge wearing a hoodie and socks eating gouda and drinking wine.

10:30 pm: writes blog instead of calling dude for random regretful sex, because, mature.


12 pm: passes out with unread messages and weird Tinder dudes sending photos of their abs. which, hey there, is always welcome.

Rinse. Repeat.


34 years old. 5'6, like, 150ish.

Life is pretty mundane right now. It's winter, so I'm basically Robb Stark guarding Winterfell and shit. Just lots of fur, and boots, and unnecessary hair growth.

Ok, the real reason for this blog is because it's been an actual year since my grandmother passed away. And I made a promise, a fucking year ago, to write my book. Just like the same promise I made the year before that, and the year before that....you get the picture.

So this blog is just to go ahead and begin. So, here goes.

My idea, (which I already know is pretty similar to High Fidelity, but I think it's going to be ok because I'm not British, or a man, or particularly smart so I think the voice will be totally different.)

SO anyhow, the concept is to track down all my past loves. Since, according to google, I'm a love (and possibly) sex addict. I didn't even know that was such thing. But, you know, the internet.

A huge majority of my time on this planet has been spent either looking for love, being in love, being heartbroken, or rebounding from a heartbreak, I figured now that I finally can just stand still and be alone, I can tell my story from an objective manner.
So I would track down, and meet up with all these "great" loves of my past.
And eventually, the book wouldn't be about the particular story (I think starting off with Sean getting kicked out of the abortion clinic for peeing in a trash can while I was in the back room recovering) but about the tracking down of the person.

So starting tomorrow, I'll begin at the place where I basically came alive. Parkchester, BX. Leland Avenue.

I'll be on the 6 train with my notebook and my Timbs. Just like it was 1999 again.

Stay tuned.



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Love in the time of Kardashians

I miss the simple days of love. Where you met. You married. You had children. There were still the same problems. Alcoholism. Infidelity. Domestic Abuse. Recession. Death. Taxes. But it was all veiled behind fabulous elbow length gloves, and low-tipped fedoras. No one really knew what was going on in your home. No one dared question you about your husband. Or your children. Those were private intimate things. For better or worse that’s just how it was. Today we have the absolute extreme opposite. And just as damaging as it is to live behind veils and lies, its equally damaging to be too open. Too exposed. Too naked. This is the struggle I have within myself constantly. How to keep pieces of myself private and protected. But also allow myself the comfort and personal freedom that comes with being totally open and honest about my life. Its very easy to “put it all out there.” Between twitter and facebook. Foursquare. .Tagged photos. Comments. Replies. Innuendos. You can pretty much expos...
2 comments
Read more

::Little Gifts::

dis⋅so⋅lu⋅tion [dis-uh-loo-shuhn] –noun 1. the act or process of resolving or dissolving into parts or elements. 2. the resulting state. 3. the undoing or breaking of a bond, tie, union, partnership, etc. There has been a lot of dissolution this year. A lot of loose ends being tied up. A lot of things ending,and the resulting states it leaves behind. You tend to reflect a lot when something tragic happens...In this case losing my job right after my 30th birthday. A double whammy. Ive been reflecting about the past year. Which of course, leads to the past few years, which in turn,becomes basically a rundown of your whole life. if you are like i am (which you're probably not, you're probably fucking normal) you overthink everything. You think about it so much that you have it figured out. Down to its very core matter. Until it looses all meaning. Like a scientist. Who can look at a flower and tell you its exact genus and species. Tell you why its red. ...
Post a Comment
Read more

::Water Board Nominees::

People who need to be waterboarded I. The overly happy co-worker who asks “how you weekend was” with a huge grin first thing Monday morning, as you stumble towards the coffee maker. B*tch is my cup empty? Is it 8am? Fall all the way back. How are these people waking up so happy? Sex? Burbon? Anti-depressants? I need answers white America. II. People who answer the phone “yellow” without being the least bit ironic. Like, they seriously answer the phone that way. Because, that’s how they talk. III. People who pull out in front of you, and then proceed to go 36 mph. Are you kidding me Tokyo Drift? You were all in a hurry to cut me off and now you’re not even GOING the speed limit? IV. Keeping on the subject of asshole drivers, people that pass you by going 186 mph only to have to slam on their brakes at the SAME red light you are at. Again, I ask, really sir? This is not the Indy 500. This is a small highway in a suburbs with red lights. Calm it down. V. People named Mercedes. Porcha. ...
1 comment
Read more