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Category Archives: east village
I don’t have any internet at the apartment so I’ve been spending time at a café with free wifi up the street. The people that come in have been very interesting. Not as interesting as the regulars at the “little person friendly” bar across the way, but some really loud and rude NYU biddies came in yesterday and made one of the waitresses cry. This was the conversation.
Biddie: Where are you from?
Waitress: Eastern Europe.
Biddie: Yeah I know but where?
Biddie: Oh. That makes sense.
Less rude Biddie 2: Where is that?
Biddie: It’s where vampires are from.
Less Rude Biddie 2: But where?
Biddie: Eastern Europe, dumbass.
The waitress then cried for a little while because she’s foreign and it’s okay to cry when you’re foreign, and I took this as an opportunity to pay for my drink without having to leave a tip. Now that I’ve typed that out I realize how awful I am. But I mean, what’s a vampire gonna do with a dollar anyway?
My roommate, Daria, keeps a large picture of herself next to her bed. This isn’t very odd, but the picture is of her pushing her boobs together. Her boobs look a lot bigger than they are in real life, and I commend her for keeping the picture there despite parents and grandparents that may enter the room. It’s as if she’s working towards a goal of sorts, or reminding herself of a time when she had the confidence to pose like that for a disposable camera.
I’m staring at this picture now for one reason, and that is because I don’t have a bed to speak of that would allow me to sit with ease in my bedroom, so I have relocated to Daria’s to write my thoughts. We live in the East Village in a really, really cozy apartment.
This isn’t entirely true. When I say East Village I really mean Alphabet City, and when I say Alphabet City I mean a neighborhood out of a Spike Lee movie. It’s really awesome. Tired, middle aged black ladies sitting in folding lawn chairs pepper our sidewalk and tell us to watch out for the dog poop on the curb. Little Asian girls throw barbies at me when I walk by. A gentrified restaurant over-charges for Ceasar salad on the corner. Also, cozy is an understatement. My room is the size of my high school drama program’s costume room where I used to catch marching band members making out.
I’m now wondering if I should have a picture next to my bed (excuse me, air mattress) of a goal I want to reach. In the past few days the only inspiring image I saw was an extremely old and frail lady with oxygen tubes coming out of her nose walking down Park avenue with a walker. She was wearing a Chanel suit, Cartier watch, and had red lipstick smeared on what used to be lips. My ultimate goal is to be like her. I should have taken a picture.
I settle for the “Who wore it Best” photo I tore out of a People magazine (shown above). The battle is between Courtney Love and Michael Jackson for who wore a Gucci top better, and Courtney Love won. The day after I cut this out, Michael Jackson died. I don’t think this is a coincidence, and I take the “Who wore it Best” column very seriously.
Regardless, I think it’s important to keep a goal as I go about my new life in New York City. I look at Daria and David and Joe and envy that they have landed the perfect, shitty, entry-level job for each of their career interests. Eventually that will be me, but until then, I’ll be avoiding my air mattress and working for the man. Wish me luck.