So, back to work tomorrow. I'm simultaneously annoyed (at giving up my free time) and excited (about the cool stuff we're going to make), which means, of course, I had to go shopping with Dante today. It cleared away some of my messy feelings, and added a whole "Back to school!" flavor to the day. I just put away all my new clothes, reorganized my one lonely set of drawers (anyone want to buy me an armoire?), and am now sipping champagne, simply because I can.

Dante and I went to St. Mark's Bookstore first, where I purchased two more Murakami books. I haven't even finished The Death of Vishnu yet, but I can tell already it will take a while, if, at the very least because it's hardcover, which means it's not suitable subway material because it won't fit in my purse.

Isn't that ridiculous? Such prejudice against a book just because it isn't out in paperback yet.

***

It was Cinde's birthday weekend, and we all headed down to Tribeca to go to that annoying club, Shine. Cinde's husband, Steven, runs a night there with his partners (the ever-present Touch Brothers), so she could get a bunch (read: as many as she liked) of us in on the list, there was an after-hours planned around the corner, blah blah blah, and numerous other reasons why I went to a club I'm not fond of on my last Friday night as a free woman.

But you know what? It wasn't half bad. I'm not telling you to go there, oh no, don't you worry. I haven't suddenly transformed myself into a fan of the New York Club scene overnight.

I'm still me. I promise.

But lots of people came, and we had a bottle of vodka for the table which was nice, and everyone was happy and sweet to Cinde, and there was a lot of love going on there, I'm telling you. (Sniff.) Lucas (aka Dr. Rendezvous) did a slamming job opening for DJ Hell, referencing Blondie and 242, amongst others, in his set. We were all super proud of Lucas, and everyone yelled and danced their asses off in tribute.

Well, I yelled anyway.

Lucas told me later that when DJ Hell - whom Lucas really admires - came up on stage, he said a bunch of nice things to him. I was happy for him. He had a really nice set.

***

While looking for my Sleater-Kinney poster (to take to work tomorrow; to hang it on my office wall; to educate my co-workers on cool girl rock), I happened upon one of my first New York paper journals. I was so into John then it was pathetic, and I spent all this time sitting in bars by myself either reading or writing letters to him that I never sent.

7.9.98
Hey Johnny boy. Sitting here in the typical nameless dive bar, one of many that populates my neighborhood. It's a Thursday. I'm drinking a Guinness but I'm not drunk (yet.) I'm smoking a cigarette but I'm not dead (yet.) I was just writing about your poem in my journal and how I don't like it that you sink into yourself somewhat and how you don't know what a fine heart you have (yet.)

Poor, stupid me. All that I wanted to say to him and never did. I wonder what would have happened had I sent just one of those love letters to him.

And obviously, I had no idea when I was drunk at all those days.

***

Back to work. Shit. I'm grinding my teeth. I have to give into it, and just do it. It isn't the end, right? And if I was always on vacation, I'd never appreciate it. And I'm lucky to get two months off, right?

I shouldn't complain.

I should shut up now.

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