Put A Ring On It

Memo To Any Potential Fiancé(s):

Please don’t buy me a ring.

Really.

Rings are useless. I’d prefer you put the money towards a down payment on a brownstone, or a Balinese vacation, or a lifetime supply of tattoos. Or donate it to charity. Or better yet: just save it.

If you must get a ring, don’t buy me a diamond.

Really.

This one’s non-negotiable. Diamonds are blood on your literal hands. They are vile, consumerist, and ostentatious. Least of these, they’re not even original. If you buy me a diamond, you don’t know me well enough to marry me.

If you insist on a ring, I prefer emeralds or pearls. Really.

I come cheap, but I’m high-value.

Return Of The Jedi Guy

Awesome Engineering Guy is at it again:

***
From: Co-worker Mikey
To: Awesome Engineering Guy
Subject: Manuscript

Galleys are ready for your review. Are you in today?

***
From: Awesome Engineering Guy
To: Co-worker Mikey
Subject: RE: Manuscript

Yes, I am in today.

***
From: Co-worker Mikey
To: Awesome Engineering Guy
Subject: RE: Manuscript

Okay. Where is your desk?

***
From: Awesome Engineering Guy
To: Co-worker Mikey
Subject: RE: Manuscript

Directions:
(1) Come down the stairs to the 20th floor.
(2) Make a right through the door (card key needed).
(3) Continue walking to the end of the hall.
(4) Make a right, then take about 3-4 steps.
(5) Mother ship will shoot retractor beam down to get you.
(6) You will appear before a council of Jedi knights.
(7) I am the 4th Jedi from the left.

***
Why don't I ever get to work with this guy??

Paper Beats Lightsaber

An e-mail exchange forwarded to me under the subject line "You're gonna love this...":

* * *
From: Awesome Engineering Guy
To: Co-worker Mikey
Subject: Final Page Proofs

My review is done. Thanks, Mike!

* * *
From: Co-worker Mikey
To: Awesome Engineering Guy
Subject: RE: Final Page Proofs

Okay, thanks. Can you send the manuscript back, please?

* * *
From: Awesome Engineering Guy
To: Co-worker Mikey
Subject: RE: Final Page Proofs

NOPE! I already made a bunch of origamis with it:
http://blog.makezine.com/archive/origami_jedi_20061202.jpg

* * *
I have a total work-crush on this guy. ♥

Talent Show-Off

So, a few years ago I was working as a bank teller (you know, because I have an English degree...) along with another girl my age named Danielle. Danielle was tiny and looked like an anime character and had this great raspy, little-kid voice and crazy, juvenile sense of humor. Upon my hiring, we immediately became best friends.

"Friends" may actually be too mild a word to describe our relationship. More like "co-conspirators." At one point, we weren't even allowed to work at windows next to each other. They actually separated us, like misbehaving kindergarteners. It was awesome.

Danielle and I became friends outside of work as well. Though I am normally terrified of going out with new people, especially by myself, I bravely accepted her invitation to hang out with her and her friends one weekend at Da Funky Phish, a well-known hole-in-the-wall place right near where I lived. In fact, the only reason I agreed to this proposal may have been because I had been to this place before, so I wouldn't be on totally unfamiliar ground. "There's this band playing that I've seen there before and the lead singer is HOT!"

A girl after my own heart.

Though I spent most of the evening perched on a bar stool in the corner as everyone else played pool, it wasn't a total loss: the lead singer was hot. Also, I was introduced to Danielle's boyfriend, Andy. Andy was in a band, too. And oh my...

Stop it stop it stop it — he is TAKEN. And she is your FRIEND. And you don't have many of them to pick and choose from. You will stop this RIGHT NOW!

Oh, but he was pretty...

So hanging out with Danielle became more comfortable for me, as long as she brought along her eye c-Andy. HAHAHA!!! GET IT?!?

...sorry.

Eventually, we started inviting the other girls from the bank to come out with us, and soon it became a regular thing: every Friday night after we closed, we'd hit up the little Irish pub down the block for Karaoke Night. (This did not always bode well for those working the Saturday morning shift the next day.)

Now, you may remember from way back that I am a slave to karaoke. I can't get enough of myself. It's embarassing, really, what an attention-whore I am. But whatever, that's not gonna stop me.

So on one of these girls' nights out, we let some of the boys tag along. Of course, Danielle brought Andy, who also brought some of his friends, all of whom immediately headed for the pool table in the back room. We girls, meanwhile, zeroed straight in on the song books.

I was usually the only one in the place who sang before she got drunk, so while the bank girls were at the bar, I sauntered up to the microphone for my rendition of the Fugees' rendition of "Killing Me Softly."

As I got going onstage, Danielle made her way to the pool table with Andy's drink. Now, according to Danielle's version of events, relayed to me later in the evening, he then says to her, "They should really turn down that background music. You can't hear Becky singing."

Danielle replies, "That is Becky singing."

Andy looks up from the pool table, drops his cue, rushes up to the stage to verify this claim, turns to his girlfriend and says:

"Damn. I want to fuck her now."

Ladies and gentlemen, to this day, I still consider that statement one of the highest compliments I have ever been paid.

Thank you, Cleveland!

Good God, Someone Help Me...

This is not a "real" post but I feel the overwhelming need to share it with someone because it's like in that movie The Ring where the only way to save yourself is to get someone else to watch the video and pass it on to them and I'm pretty sure I need to do something like that because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I CAN NOT STOP WATCHING THIS:

Something So Outrageously Hot It Has Invaded My Very Soul

Please refer to this post while I take a moment to recover...

Good luck, and Godspeed.

Two Birds With One Craigslist Posting

I'm looking at another apartment tonight.
That has 2 bedrooms.
With the cute broker guy I met last week.

I wonder if he's looking for a new place, too...

Top 5 Reasons I Should Have Been Born A Gay Man

1. Adam Lambert
2. Johnny Weir
3. Daniel Vosovic
4. My obsession with Lady GaGa.
5. I really like sucking [expletive deleted].

Oh, and I am frequently outrageous and controversial, as illustrated in #5 above...

"I'm So Gay Proud Of Us!"

Today I almost ran the Front Runners 5-mile Pride Run in Central Park. Sadly, around the 2-mile mark my toe went totally (HA!) out-of-whack and I had to be transported to the finish line in the world's slowest ambulance. I'd rather not reflect on that. So let's focus on some interesting musical tidbits instead:

* Artist of the first song to pop up on my iPod as the race began: Lady GaGa (see this previous post to understand why this is significant)

* In the "Prime Example Of Irony" category, song playing during the first uphill stretch of the course: Jane's Addiction — "Coming Down The Mountain"

* Rounding out the "Prime Example Of Irony" category, song playing right around the time my toe died out: Nancy Sinatra — "These Boots Are Made For Walking"

* More GaGa: One of the raffle winners announced was named Alejandro. Everyone immediately started singing. :)

And despite the fact that I now need to have my toe X-rayed and may not be able to run again for a while, it was still totally (HA!) worth it because I totally (HA!) got to talk to Daniel Vosovic at the starting line and pretended I didn't know who he was, even though I recognized his tattoo and he was wearing ostrich feathers. ♥

Run Like A Girl

Last Saturday I ran the women-only Mini 10K in Central Park. At first I was confused as to why it was called a "Mini" 10K — were the miles somehow magically shorter than those in a regular 10K? It turns out, as a co-worker and fellow racer described and as the "History" section of the website confirms, to be "a much stranger and sadder story": Back in the '70s, when the idea for the race came into being, it was believed that women — being the fragile and delicate treasures that we are — were physically incapable of completing a full marathon, so they substituted this special all-female 10K just for us, and since it was the '70s and mini-skirts were in style, they named it "The Mini." Knowing this backstory, I think I would have preferred if it had instead had something to do with the Mini-Cooper, or midgets. I decided to just call it "The Lady Race."

I hadn't realized prior to the run what a draw it was. During the pre-race "festivities," which I was unable to observe due to my not-at-all publicly embarrassing "NON-COMPETITIVE/12-MINUTE MILE" corral being too far away from the stage, the voice from the loudspeaker welcomed former Olympians and marathon winners from places like San Francisco and Sweden and as far away as Kenya and New Zealand. Most notably, for me, was the announced presence of Paula Radcliffe, the New York Marathon winner from 2007. Back then, this picture:

...plastered not only in the sports section, but on the front pages of newspapers everywhere, filled me with such joy that to this day I still believe it represents all that is right with the world.

As tiring as it was (who knew Central Park West had so many damn hills??), it felt great to see so many bouncing ponytails ahead of me, to pass so many boyfriends and husbands cheering for their girls on the sidelines, to be a part of this crowd of ladies of all shapes and sizes and ages and races and speeds, all of us headed for the same finish line. Corny as it sounds, it was moving — literally and figuratively. And it was also kind of fun, whenever a male jogger just out for a regular run got a little too close and crossed our path, to point and yell "Hey! Get outta here, faker!"

However, I've mentioned in my previous running post, that I have no will power when it comes to matters of endurance and physical fitness. This time around, though, I was inspired to push myself a little harder — as illustrated by this internal monologue around the 4-mile mark: "Ok, once you pass that lamp post you can walk for the next 3 songs [was listening to my iPod]...ooh, wait — 'Just A Girl' just came on! This is symbolic! You have to keep running for this one...c'mon, you can make it; you’re almost there...lip-synch — it'll help you breathe...wow, why does this seem so tough? Maybe I can walk during the instrumental break...NO, damn it! You will not walk during the instrumental break! Stop being such a wuss! — Ok, ok, I'm sorry; I’ll finish the song...sheesh..."

And fittingly for this particular race, as I came breathlessly down the home stretch, my sister spotted me from the sidelines and ran alongside me, clapping and cheering, right up to the finish line. GIRL POWER!

* * *

I've often noted that I could really do without the sideline photographers littering the courses of practically every race I've ever run. Really, who wants a picture of themselves red-faced and sweaty and in an awkward position circulating around the web, unless they're a porn star? During my first official race back in March in Prospect Park, the finish line photographer snapped this iconic shot:

[Click for full-size awesomeness]

I was seriously considering ordering the commemorative plaque.

So this time around, specifically since it was "The Lady Race," I decided every time I passed the paparazzi not to give them the finger, as was my instinct, but to do the Lady GaGa eye and blow them a kiss. And for once, I'm actually kind of looking forward to the results.

Coincidentally, on the train ride home, a cute guy got on a few stops after me, noticeably carrying a Kermit The Frog stuffed animal. Fortunately, he sat near me, so I had the opportunity to lean over and ask, "I'm sorry, but I need to know — what's with Kermit?"

"Oh," he replied a bit sheepishly, "I passed this elementary school doing a fundraiser and they were selling them, and I couldn't resist."

Heart = melting.

He added, "But now I just look like that guy who carries weird stuff around."

"Hey," I reassured him, "Lady GaGa did it! That makes you cool to me."

Man, I wish I had got his number...

* * *

Yesterday, I ran the Corporate Challenge 3.5 mile race in Central Park. And I'm pretty sure a large portion of my co-workers are now wondering how an obviously insane person ever ended up being hired by a respected company like ours. Which I suppose is warranted, since one of the HR supervisors overheard a piece of conversation in which I was involved that began thusly: "So I was stalking Adam Lambert's brother on Twitter..."

But enough about Neil...

I was feeling pretty good, considering it was my second race in twice as many days. I even managed to pass a couple of co-workers. And then at about the 2 ½ mile mark, my foot started going numb.

I don't know why this happens, but I've experienced it several times before. It doesn't occur every time I run, but there doesn't seem to be any predictability to it. When it does pop up, I usually just try to grin and bear it. Because I am obviously a retarded masochist.

So I stopped along the sidelines and shook the foot out a little and loosened my shoe laces, hoping this would solve the problem as it occasionally has before. I did this 3 more times at regular intervals — no improvement. Finally I just gave up and took off the shoe. Miraculously, feeling finally began to creep back in. They say barefoot running is supposed to be good for your joints, so I kept my sock on and ran the last half a mile with only one shoe (using much more caution than usual to avoid the piles of horseshit that dotted the course).

Made it to the end and hopped over the finish line on one foot. Can't wait to see how this picture comes out.

UPDATE: Damn it, picture results from the Mini came in this morning — no GaGa eyes. Yet I do consider these an improvement over that last masterpiece:

[Click to embiggen. P.S.: Those facial expressions are laughter, not pain.]

UPDATE AGAIN: Anyone who may have doubted my artistic ability after this post, please compare the MS Paint representation of my hair to the real-life one in the photo above. I AM A GENIUS!!!

Psychic Misadventures

Some highlights of my family's group psychic reading held last Monday night:

Sister, in regard to grandparents who died before my siblings and I were born: "What do they say about us?"
Brother, interrupting before psychic can answer: "They're very disappointed in you. Me and Becky are fine, though."

Psychic, holding a picture of our other grandfather: "I'm seeing him surrounded by a ring of fire..."
Me: "Grandpa is Johnny Cash?!?"

Additional Tidbits:
* I am getting married in 2015. It will be a small ceremony. It will probably be held in a VFW hall. [EDITOR'S NOTE: This sounds so tacky that it saddens me.]
* I'm joining the Peace Corps.
* No mention of whether or not I am still gay.

This psychic was a customer at my mom's job who, incidentally, was also the father of a friend of my cousin. A co-worker had invited him to her house to do a reading for some friends, just for kicks, and he had been surprisingly accurate on a few things (except for that minor gay one...), so we thought we'd give it a try, too, again, just for fun.

My mom had informed us that at the end of the session, we could each ask 3 questions. I couldn't think of a single question all day. No, correction: I could think of many questions, but as mentioned in a similar scenario in Eat Pray Love (put your literary objections aside for just a moment), "I was rightly ashamed of myself for these thoughts: who travels all the way around the world to meet an ancient medicine man in Indonesia, only to ask him to intercede in boy troubles?" ["Dear Psychic Man: Will Neil go out with me? Check yes, no, or maybe."] I mentioned this troublesome dilemma to my sister, who wisely replied, "He's not a Balinese medicine man, though. He's just Lisa Altieri's dad."

The only legitimate inquiry I could come up with was, will I ever have kids? As I've written here before, I'm approaching an age at which my fertility will soon be plummeting, and from a practical standpoint, I am in no position to support a child — I'm barely responsible enough to take care of a cat. And so, intellectually, I have come to terms with this. I know I am not ready, and anyway, I am terrified of the idea of childbirth [NOTE TO SELF: NEVER watch Agnes of God and Rosemary's Baby back-to-back ever again.] And, as I frequently remind myself, adoption is always an option. Yet there is still that occasional pang of loss when I spy a chubby, giggling baby on the subway, or when imagining how gorgeous "our" kids would have been if I was married to [insert boy-du-jour here]. It's really the only issue in my life about which I have no real measure of certainty. So at least I had one question.

The psychic arrived at the house, we all settled around the dining room table, and the first thing he said, pointing directly at me before I even asked, was: "You're going to have twin girls."

I don't necessarily believe him, but...wow.

Seeking

I've decided instead of being all whiny and emo about my romantic situation to do something a little more proactive about it. So...

Edgy but goofy single white female; 35, 5'9", 38B; short reddish hair, big blue eyes, hipster glasses, painted toenails. Outspoken and opinionated; witty, sarcastic, and hilarious. Editor by day; sexy villainess by night; karaoke champ on the weekends. Reader, writer, roller skater. Love fast food, foreign films and fancy dresses.

In search of someone tall and talented, well-read and well-spoken; a sweet and sexy scrawny rebel librarian type. Cool hair, pretty eyes, nice smile; fun and smart with a warped sense of humor (absolute MUST). Sexually adventurous; socially and politically conscious. Be nice to the waiter. Hold my hand on the subway. Wave at little kids. Know I have a weakness for younger men.

Brooklyn/NYC area, please. No chest hair necessary. Tattoos preferred but not required. Excellent kissers only.

Spread the word, ladies. And surprise me, gentlemen. ;)

Yet Another Reason Why I Love My Sister, But Not In A Creepy "Flowers In The Attic" Kind Of Way

Seeking reassurance after a recent crisis of confidence, via e-mail...

Li'l Sis: "You should have all the confidence in the world! You look wonderful, you're hysterical and you're freaking smart!"

...then two lines down...

Li'l Sis: "This is why I am going to start eating men alive."

...she always knows just how I feel. :)

Yet Another Reason Why I Love My Brother, But Not In A Creepy Angelina Jolie Way

Seeking reassurance after some past boy trouble...

Me: "But I shouldn't even be upset, because I can do better than him, right?"
Him: "I could take a shit in a piece of Tupperware and you could carry that around and take it to the movies with you and it would be better than him."

...he always knows just the right things to say. :)

Standards

There was an ad on the side of my Facebook page this morning with the headline "Want A Boyfriend?" and a picture of this guy:


Actually, this is the reason why I don't want a boyfriend...

Great Moments In Girlhood

I think I may have been a little "confused" during my elementary school days...

When I was 5, I requested an R2-D2-shaped cake for my birthday party. The bakery called my mom twice to confirm that they had been given the right name and that this cake was indeed for a girl.

I had more Matchbox cars than Barbie dolls.

At school during recess, when all the girls would chase the boys and try to kiss them, I was the bodyguard for the boys. Even they were terrified of me.

One of my classrooms was set up in groups, with 4 desks to a group and seats randomly assigned, but you could opt to switch groups or stay where you were at the beginning of every month. I'm pretty sure I shared a group with the same 3 guys for 4 months straight before the teacher split us up because it was "unfair" to the other kids.

In second grade, I had a reputation for shin-kicking and shoe-throwing. These were mainly defensive tactics used against those who dared ridicule me for liking hockey, in general, and the New York Rangers, in particular. Remember — this was Islander territory, at the height of their grand '80s dynasty. But my allegiance never wavered, and it didn't hurt that I was actually more knowledgable about the game than my male classmates. [Confidential to Danny K.: I'm sorry I hurt your feelings and your knee, but goalies can score, and it's still 3 PERIODS to a hockey game, not 3 "halves."]

In fact, the hockey thing still persists: Several years ago, after a big family dinner at my grandparents' house, while all the female relatives were in the kitchen chatting and doing dishes, I was in the living room watching the game with the guys. When a fight inevitably broke out on-screen, I jumped off the couch and yelled, "Yeah! Kick his ass!"

My dad turned to my uncle and said with pride, "That's my little girl!"

Get A Damn Job

Via Twitter again:

negativeneil: I would rather pour salt in my urethra than write another cover letter. It's gotta be Kosher salt, though. I'm not a fucking maniac.

Have I mentioned that I love this man?

My Subway Subculture Initiation

So about 2 summers ago, I made the grand pilgrimage all the way from Long Island to Brooklyn to look at an apartment. On my way back home, I get on the Q at Church Ave. I'm only going a few stops, so I just grab onto a pole as the doors close. Distracted by the adorable giggling baby in the stroller to the right of me, I don't even notice this guy on my left until he gets up as if he's about to get off the train, but instead grabs onto the pole I'm leaning against and gets right in my face. He's balding with long hair, missing a tooth, wearing socks with sandals, and seems drunk, even though it's only 11 am.

"I like your tattoos," he says, smiling so wide he's almost leering, and leaning uncomfortably close to me.

"Thanks," I say before really thinking about it, "I have more" — my standard response to such compliments.

Bad move.

"I'd like to see them sometime," he says, stumbling and nearly falling on me with every lurch of the train. I just smile nervously and shift positions, but this doesn't stop my admirer. "Look," he says, conspiratorially, "I'm getting off at DeKalb, but I'd like to get to know you better. Maybe you can give me your phone number?"

Before he even gets the full sentence out, I tell him, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend," which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to flat-out hurt these psychos' feelings. But my white lie doesn't deter Mr. Flatbush Casanova.

"He doesn't have to know," he replies and winks at me.

Oh, gross.

"Sorry," I repeat, grateful that these bug-eye sunglasses are practically eating my face so no one can see the half-amused/half-repulsed look I'm giving this guy right now.

"Do you live together?" he asks.

God damn, he's persistent! "Yeah," I tell him, "yeah, we do," and I'm even starting to picture it now — my imaginary boyfriend and I, curled up on a couch in the apartment I just looked at, eating take-out, doing something cozy and domestic, like a jigsaw puzzle. There's even a cat purring by my feet.

"That's great," he says, still not backing off. "I wish you luck. Tell him he's a lucky guy."

And then — relief of reliefs — it's my stop. "I will," I call over my shoulder as I hastily exit to the platform. I don't even watch the gap.

Man, I think, cracking up by myself in the middle of the empty train station, why can't "normal" guys that I'm attracted to ever be that direct? It would make things so much easier. Because even though I'm more than a little creeped-out, I'm still, strangely, and embarassingly, a little bit flattered.

And I did take that apartment.

[NOTE: Had you been at DimeStories tonight, you could have heard this enchanting story live.]

Trashy Romance

A new Subway opened up across the street from me a few weeks ago. Since it's so conveniently nearby, hasn't been around long enough to turn seedy yet, offers somewhat healthier fare than the Burger King and KFC just around the corner, and saves me from the chore of actually having to cook something for myself (let's put it this way: I make really great omelets...and that's it), I've patronized this establishment pretty often already. I decided to pick something up from there on my way home tonight.

Incidentally, I live in a pretty trashy neighborhood. Literally. As in, there's garbage all over the place. The sidewalks can get pretty hazardous on sanitation day. They're usually streaked with rivulets of what I can only imagine is toxic sludge leaking from the mountains of plastic bags piled up on the curbs. Then there are all the other obstacles blocking the path and requiring avoidance — you know, those common, everyday yet unwieldy items, like...mattresses. There's never a scarcity of paper plates, plastic bags and empty bottles on the ground, pick-up day or not. And during the summer, all pet owners within a 10-mile radius collectively forget about the "curb your dog" laws.

So, expectedly, during the winter, not every walkway gets shoveled in a timely or efficient manner after it snows. In the half a block I need to traverse to get to the Subway, there are about 8 slush puddles, a couple patches of black ice, and a gigantic plow-created drift spilling into the crosswalk on the corner.

As I'm waiting for the light and devising a strategem to somehow get over or around the pile of snow in front of me, I notice a cute guy walking in my direction. I'm brazenly gazing at him in admiration as he passes by, when he suddenly stops and turns around, heading back in my direction. OMG — did he notice me?? Is he coming back to say I've so stunned him with my beauty and superb fashion sense that he simply couldn't resist the opportunity to steal another look and get my number?!? How does my hair look??

He stops a few steps away from me, bends down, picks a cigarette butt out of the snow drift, and tosses it in the trash can behind him. Then he smiles right at me before walking away.

This small act so warms my heart I'm almost sure it could melt all the snow in my way.

I totally should have got his number.

Facebook Hates Me

But I will not let it break me.

I signed on this morning and immediately, up there in the corner with the event invites and friend suggestions, pops up a box with a picture that gives me butterflies and the direction: "Reconnect with him. Send him a message."

The "him" in this case is a boy I had been kind of fascinated with for a while and with whom I had hooked up this summer, upon which occasion I promptly fell head-over-heels, giddy-teenager-esque in love, as I am wont to do when it comes to beautiful and unusual, heart-meltingly sweet, sexually ambiguous 26-year-olds who also happen to be spectacular kissers. A week later he moved halfway across the country and I haven't seen or heard from him since.

So, masochist that I am, I decide, "Ok, sure, I'll just click on his page and see what he's up to." I am then promptly greeted with a picture of him with a girl. On the beach. And she's cuter than me. And probably younger, too.

God damn it.

It's not like I had expected him to be pining away with love for me or anything. I mean, "we" only lasted about one (glorious) week, and it was ages ago. In fact, I had been pretty succesful these last 6 months, after a brief period of pining and self-pity, and — ok, fine — maybe a few ill-advised drunken texts, at forgetting all about him (which is why I hadn't just deleted him from my friends and avoided this whole thing, as some of you are surely going to point out). But I probably could have gone without being confronted with hard evidence reminding me that I've been erased from memory. Which I would have if the Facebook gods hadn't tricked me into it.

Fucking Facebook.

I bet they even did it on purpose. I bet if I look at the date the picture was posted (which I won't because I am not an Internet stalker, I am not an Internet stalker, I am not an Internet stalker...), it'll be like, yesterday, and the evil overlords over at Facebook HQ probably noticed immediately and were all, "Ok, NOW! It's go time! Let's get her!"

And I can't even vent about it on Facebook, as I usually would, because he might see it and think I'm some kind of obsessive freak (which I am not, I am not, I am not...) and then my friends would try to cheer me up with well-intended sympathy that'll just make me think about it more, and so on and so forth...

DAMN YOU, FACEBOOK! I WILL NOT SUCCUMB TO YOUR TREACHERY!!!

...but I still haven't deleted him.

Mourning

Part I

Today, the underwire of my favorite leopard-print bra snapped while I was wearing it.

Ladies and gentlemen, a moment of silence.

And a Band-Aid for where it kept stabbing me in the ribs, too, please. Thanks.

Part II

Dear Boy In The Wool Trench Coat Who Got Off The Q Train At Canal St.:

Men as pretty as you should not be allowed to exist. You pain us mere mortals/straight women with your unattainable beauty.

Sorry about the staring.