Negotiating. I hate it. I hate it when I have to ask people I like for more money. I hate it when I have to do things to make people I like give me more money. I hate it when people I don't like ask me not to do things that would enable me to receive more money, just so that they can receive more money. I hate it when I am forced to speak the truth that does not need to be spoken. Just so that I will have a job when I return from my hiatus in Europe. Just so I can get ahead in this crazy world. Just so that I can save money. Today I made a decision. I hope I made the right one.
Fabulous people. You know what? Fuck you, and all your fabulousness. I went to a record release party for Everything But The Girl tonight at the Soho Grand, and I didn't see the girl, and it wasn't grand, either. $11 for a Cosmo? To look at girls with fake tits and guys with bad accents? Kiss my big, fat, large Jewish ass.
Waiting. You wait in line. No, you wait. Yes, you. You. Wait. Not me. You.
LOVES
My friends. Someone recently told me, "I don't need to read your website anymore. It's just about how much you love your friends." Hey, it's not just about that. It's also about non-smoking, too. Anyway, I like my friends. I think they're genius.
I was once engaged to a wonderful man who, when I questioned him for staring at my knees for too long, told me the following:
"I read a translation of a French novel, where a man described the vision of a woman alight from a carriage. The man said that the image was one of pure genius and added, 'The word genius is used too sparingly in everyday conversation.'"
He added, "Your knee is pure genius."
I can't help it. Everything about my friends is genius. I have good taste. So sue me.
Tonight Cinde and I came up with the "Party Girl Scout Badge" concept, which I'm sure I need to trademark like, tomorrow. I started the evening at Mie for dinner with Liz Zack, headed to Barramundi with Kerri and Templar et al, zoomed over to the bar at Soho Grand (a brief visit due to the $11 drink incident), took a cab to Botanica, eyed a line at B-Bar (apparently it's no longer the Bowery Bar, and it's just for gay men, at least on Tuesdays), and then finished off at Liquids. This means I get the Tuesday night party girl badge, and when I turn 30, I automatically get to be a scoutmaster.
Springtime in New York. Everyone is just going freaking nuts. I just got home at 2 AM, it's a Tuesday, and people were still running around the streets, talking, laughing, and generally being in good spirits. None of us will be so happy when the humidity makes our hair stand on end, and forces our pores to drain any nutrient intake for the day, but in the spring, we run free, still pale bodies taking two steps at a time, enjoying our new shoes and t-shirts and easy, non-committal drunkeness while it lasts. Tomorrow we are hungover. Today we are young and live in Manhattan.
My white slip. I have this white slip that I bought at a 99 cents a pound store in Seattle. It is ill-fitting and tight, and my breasts spill out of it. It hugs my curves in honest ways. It is better suited for use in a trailer park than in an apartment in the East Village. Regardless, I am more than comfortable in it. I wear it for lovers, and I wear it for myself. I fuck in it. I sleep in it. I am wearing it now. I am going to sleep.