I am walking down Vesey Street, or what would have been Vesey Street, had there not been the constant construction, Fernet Menta on my tongue, and the glimmering remains of sunlight on the horizon ahead.
I am meeting people I have only known over email, and I am learning so damn much.
I am responding to an email about a friend who ripped me off, to an acquaintance who is concerned about the well-being of said “friend”. I assure the acquaintance that given a pocket-dialed voicemail weeks prior, the “friend” is likely still drawing breath.
I am at The Dead Rabbit, constantly. Always on Fridays.
I am switching my phone between arms, extending it back into a scrum, hoping to catch something resembling a quote from the front office of a team that hasn’t yet hired a player.
I am at dinner, talking about authenticity, and marketing, and college over spicy tripe and pici carbonara. I am right about the lemon bars, but that’s less about me and more about the lemon bars.
I am in a locker room, getting pushed in the back by a cameraman who is grumbling loudly about not being able to get a shot. I was here first. I relinquish my spot so that he’ll stop whining. I am not thanked.
I am throwing up just a little in my mouth. I am regaining my composure.
I am perpetually on the phone: solving problems, comforting, joking, advising, and trying my damnedest to get things done without losing my composure.
I am trying to perfect my marinara recipe. It’s not bad, it just could be better.
I am coming up to the surface from below; the last vestiges of the sunlight is gone.
I am explaining a joke that involved someone in Portland (Oregon) casually soliciting me for an illegal drug. The person I am explaining the joke to, who was rather aggrieved that I would make such a joke in the first place, responds “Ha, fair enough. What part of town? I’m more surprised it was meth, not heroin.”
I am asking for feedback but getting very little. It is okay. I am used to this.
I am breaking news and getting name dropped, which is quite a change from a year ago.
I am playing games: Infamous Second Son and Diablo 3: Reaper of Souls and Luftrausers and Goat Simulator and South Park Stick Of Truth and Zoo Keeper Versus. They are all enjoyable in their own ways.
I am tired of the cold, and tired of telling people I’m tired of the cold.
I am standing at a soccer-related party, with Katie and my friend Dave. The team comes out. Katie shouts “THIERRY!” as Thierry Henry walks by us. He looks over, and smiles. She puts her hand up. He high fives her emphatically. All I can think: wait, did that just happen?
I am inserting myself in someone else’s drama. I know this is never a good idea.
I am at a bar I haven’t been to in six years drinking alone. People I see frequently/occasionally/never show up. We share that smile of friends that don’t intersect as much as we promised we would.
I am eating at a restaurant I haven’t been to in eight years. It has lost whatever limited character it had.
I am wondering when I became so numb to the rich variety of my life that I started believing that very little happens during my average month.
