In Union Square, a standard pamphlet-waving, presumably Jesus-preaching weirdo approaches me…
Weirdo: “Oh, honey. I really think I can help you.”
Me: “Um, yeah no thanks, I don’t need to be saved by Jesus today .”
Weirdo: “Oh no no– I’m a stylist.”
I get into the elevator with Nora and a (presumably married) man and woman are there.
Woman: “Oh my goodness look at this baby! She is SO cute! How old is she?”
Me: “Aw thank you. 7 months.”
Woman: “Look at that face! Ugh this makes me wish I had had more babies.”
Man: “It’s never too late!”
Woman: “It literally is too late.”
Man: “No it’s not! Why do you say that?”
Woman: “Because I’m fucking 50 and going through menopause, Larry! Jesus Christ!”
Trying really hard to learn all the doormen’s names before Christmas.
I really need some reassurance here because I totally feel like the Grinch who stole childhood. But this was justified, right?
Background: kid across the hall constantly plays soccer in the hallway. Literally uses people’s apartment doors as goals. Now that the weather is getting colder, these indoor soccer sessions are increasing, and lasting for hours. No, I have no idea why he isn’t in school. He’s at least 11 years old.
So parents out there, it’s ok that I went and ruined this kid’s fun, correct? I’m not a mean old cranky neighbor lady, right? It was justified, don’t you think?*
*In case the leading questions didn’t make this obvious, I am seeking agreement responses only. This is not a situation where I am interested in diverse opinions. Solely looking to avoid guilt tears as I sit here typing common-sore aligned math problems beneath the glow of my therapy lamp.
That moment when you stop by your apartment and see that your subletter has drawn a huge, ejaculating penis on your window.
Walking down the street, the guy next to me and I happen to awkwardly be keeping the same exact pace for almost a block.
Guy: “Hi there! We might as well interact if we’re going to stroll next to each other.”
Me: (laughing) “Guess so!”
Guy: “Wow– you have really pretty eyes.”
Me: (blushing) “Aw, thank you…”
Guy: “Don’t worry, I’m gay.”
Me: “Oh! I wasn’t worried…”
Guy: “Well, you know how straight guys are always pulling that shit…”
No. I don’t.
Straight guys don’t just randomly tell me I have pretty eyes. That would be lovely.
What straight guys do is compare me to their mother or ask me to sit on their face.
I woke up with my iPhone charger wrapped around my neck, and I couldn’t help but think that would be a fitting and poetic way to die.
Then I worried that that was a weird and not-normal thing to immediately think. But I was still strangely proud of myself for finding the cool factor in what could have been my accidental and untimely demise.
Then I really thought about this untimely demise. Like, the logistics of it. I’m off work until Monday, and had I died in my sleep last night, it’s conceivable that it would have taken 5 days for my body to be found. In my underwear.
Then I thought it might be worth it to have a roommate again, just so I can die with some dignity.
Then I thought about how much I love living alone, and would I even be CAPABLE of living with a roommate again?
Then I thought about how that’s what marriage is– a LIFELONG roommate.
Then I reevaluated my plan to one day get married. Lifelong is REALLY long, guys.
Unless, of course, you accidentally die young in your sleep, wrapped in your iPhone cord.
And that’s where the thought spiral came full circle, and I was able to get out of bed and start my day.
So what I’m trying to say is, so far in 2015, my anxiety disorder is totally under control.