Conversations Kill

Do you ever get the feeling that things are like, choreographed? Like, you walk down into the subway at 2 am, and right away this guy starts playing the ukelele and whistling “Dream a Little Dream” and then he finishes and the train pulls in and these two men usher/drag in a third, very drunk man, is it their friend or just some guy that passed out in the station that they’re helping out because the train only comes once a millennium at that hour?, and this guy and girl sit across from you and the girl, with this pretty smile and a long stemmed electric orange sunflower in her hand just lifts her feet on up and sets them on top of the front wheel of the boy’s bike and then the girl sitting directly across from you sneezes and then it breaks.

Grossery Store

Oh thank heaven! A 7-Eleven recently opened on 14th Street west of 6th Ave (too new even for google maps, it seems), and boy do they have a wretched selection of food-products - and by wretched I mean, inducing of wretching. I went in the other day, in need of some doritos, and took in the prepared foods cases on my way to the pre-packaged gut bomb section. Two slices of (slightly warmed over, gelatinously cheesy) pizza for $3.33! Two heart-stopping breakfast taquitos for $2! Nachos, with free chili and cheese (From a machine! That was broken! Even though they just opened?). They even do a waffle sandwich, a la the back-by-popular-demand-for-a-limited-time-only Dunkin D Waffle Breakfast Sandwich. If you know me at all, you know I'm a girl who likes gross things. But wow 7-Eleven. Wow. You have been the cause of a feeling of repulsion arising in me. Thank you for making me feel alive.

Moonshine in Mine Eyes

Have you ever been so cold that your eyeballs froze? That's how cold out it is, right now. I mean technically your eyes can't freeze, solid, in your head (while you're alive), but they do like, y'know, freeze. It affects my vision!

Meanwhile, as the liquid inside of my eyes grows sluggish, the night sky with the wolf moon is so bright it looks like summer twilight. I missed the moonrise, so I guess I missed the biggest and bestest part.

Guess Who's Coming To Stab You In Your Sleep

I get so offended/put off by the strangest of things. Target has this new ad campaign for a line of cookware, bakeware and yes even FOOD by this TV "chef" lady, moon-faced Giada de Laurentiis. I was disturbed when I saw the subject of the marketing email from Target, and I had the most visceral reaction to the content once I opened it and was slapped in the face/punched in the gut with the visual of Giada grimacingly smiling over a spoon of something or other (paste made to look like something delicious, I imagine), and the campaign catchphrase floating beside her mug: "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?" Come on, Target! Appropriating the title of an important Civil Rights era race relations romantic dramedy? Said email delivered to my inbox ONE DAY prior to the celebration of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday?!? So so wrong! Granted, it's a phrase that's come into common enough usage, but using it in a marketing campaign for a line of (low-quality) Target cookware reallllly grinds my gears. I'm tempted to write Target a strongly worded letter to this effect. Sidney Poitier, where are you!

Uncle Fester Comes for a Visit

For the last couple of weeks I've been talking about my festering ankle wound to anyone and everyone who would listen. About a month ago I took a little stumble on some subway stairs and got home to discover a bit of a bloody mess. Poured some hydrogen peroxide on that bad boy, slapped a band-aid on, and assumed it would fix itself, like all those scrapes I got back in the day when I roller skated outside with indoor skates. Alas, how wrong have I turned out to be! The festering wound has, as I mentioned, festered. I'm not exactly helping the recovery along, what with my no antibiotic ointment applying and my stuffy boots wearing. But I think this wound would fester regardless, considering the probably high likelihood of necrotizing fasciitis living on subway stairs.

Sometimes I go without a band-aid, thinking the contact with air will do it some good. It gets scabby in the middle when left uncovered (though still slightly gooey 'round the edges), so I've been known to throw some socks or tights on over it and go about my day with an unband-aided, scabbily festering wound. Today, the wound took its vengeance for this most unhealthy and unwise practice of mine. As I slowly removed my tights, I had a flashback to the moment of tights-removal on that cruel night, the one where I tried to rush past that bum on the steps and was rewarded by fate with a tumble and a scrape. I felt this slight pain on my ankle, this shiny freshness that I hadn't felt since that woeful beginning. I looked down in a crystal clear fog - there was no scab resting atop the goo. THERE WAS JUST GOO. Some demon possessed me to search inside my tights for the missing scab - I turned them inside out, and there it was, dried scab side stuck the the tights, GOO side laughing in my face (and there it sits, for I haven't managed to bring myself to remove it). I sat down and breathed deeply. I rested my head in between my legs, like I was taught in grade school so as to ward off nausea. I looked at the wound again. So festeringly gooey. It has a lip like a crater. No, a volcano. Yesss, a volcano. With an oozing lake of slimey goo instead of lava.

Rawr!

Thinking about transferring to Syracuse based purely on what is surely the most incredible CFP I have ever and will ever see(n).

A Visual Caress

This is a thing of beauty.