People in NY think they're not starfuckers. Maybe they're not. Except for when they are, and pretend they're not, which is it's very own brand of sickening.I was on line for an event the other day (a few months ago, I suppose), and Meryl Streep walked by. The guy on line behind me was practically breaking his neck not to look, and when I realized who it was, I said "wow, was that Meryl Streep?" he said "oh, I never notice that sort of thing."
The other day I was sitting on a two-sided bench at my subway stop, writing blognotes, actually. I was kind of wrapped up in it, until someone gagged into the hood of my jacket. It brought me right back down to earth, folks.
My friend told me today I could be the mother of a 20 year old girl (I love misquoting you, baby!).
I've recently heard more than once from #9. He's called twice, I've been unable to pick up, he's left messages. Once was to see if I wanted to collaborate on a project, and once, I suspect, so I had his new phone number. Though he's not answered either time I've called back (or he'd call back, and I couldn't pick up). Each time, I've loved getting his message.
My birthday was last week. More on that later.
I've been playing a lot of hockey lately, and I'm feeling mixed. But more happy than not.
No good things have ever come after the words "we're supposed to be friends, right?" Today, I learned this, and even though the person was joking, I felt bad. But because I often obsess about other people's lives to avoid worrying about parts of my own, and because I know this, I'm going to try not to get all wrapped up in his problem.
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