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I don't know why I'm procrastinating going to my storage space. I haven't visited since October last year, when I moved my space from one floor to another. You'd think I'd be happy to visit the stuff I have there, see what's what, if I want to transport some stuff back here and vice-versa. I put way too much pressure on myself, thinking I have to go through everything all at once. I have to tell myself I can just go there and look at stuff. I don't even have to do anything with it. I hate this worthless worrying.
Anyone but him, people. Stop tearing each other down, putting each other down, digging up dust and calling it dirt. I truly don't care who wins the election a year from now as long as it's not him. No one is going to be perfect, no one is going to have all the answers, and everyone is going to not fulfill everything he or she says. If you don't vote for whatever person runs against him and vote for a third party out of spite or a misguided belief that you can change the system that way, you're a moron.
He texts me after two-plus months of no communication, asking if he can "pick [my] brain" about plant-based diets. No preface, no "sorry I've been out of touch", no explanation for absence, just a request for information. I text back a jaunty message saying that Google would be better equipped to answer any questions than "little ol' me", and he single-syllabically thanks me, rather than press in a "cute" way to get together. If he's not willing to do even the most minimal amount of pursuit, even on a platonic level, he's not the type of person my life needs.
I truly intended to give him one of the baby Bundts of the six I made the day before Thanksgiving. I planned to give it to him on Thanksgiving morning, even though I knew he'd protest and say that he was trying to be "good" and not indulge, and we both know he seems almost physically impossible of staying away from sweets. We both knew that if he refused my cake and then went on to eat something else dessert-like later in the day, I'd be pissed. So, really, my eating all six the day before Thanksgiving was a relationship-saver!
If you want me to hate you immediately, put part of your finger in your mouth and consume or appear to consume whatever bits of flesh and nail you find so compelling. Extra hate points if the action generates sound/noise. You'll be right up (down) in there in my estimation with hair-twirlers, leg-shakers, finger-tappers/drummers, whistlers, pen-clickers, pencil-tappers, and anyone else above toddler age who fidgets or fiddles or frets and can't compose himself. Teach yourself how to sit the fuck still. And please stop eating your fucking hands. Unless you want me to hate you, in which case, carry on.
It'd be one thing if the "opera" "singer" who pollutes the airwaves in the courtyard made any improvement. Alas, the loud one-note warbling of a mortally wounded emu continues, much to my consternation and that of anyone else in a two-block radius who hasn't jammed himself in the ears with flaming, red-hot skewers for desperate relief. It's chilly outside. Please shut your windows and contain that caterwauling to the walls of your home, walls I feel sorry for having to witness this mess. Fortunately you're so inexpert that you run out of breath within minutes, so in that regard, brava.
A surefire way to ensure my absence at an event is to include "audience participation" in the announcement/invitation. I'll cower, cringe until my bones shatter, say, "Oh, HELL no," and want to flee the room even if alone and the offending offer is merely on my computer screen. This fills me with the same variety of spine-chilling dread as "Let's sit in a circle and go around the room so you can introduce yourselves." Nothing makes me want to turn off all lights, crawl under a blanket with my cat, and hibernate for a fortnight until the thing is over.
Oh, the horror and dread when, from the corner where the litterbox resides, I hear the undeniable wet squirty sound that precedes the wafting of the accompanying smell and my cat dashing from the scene of the crime as if it's chasing her with the intent to kill or she doesn't want me to know she's the offender. How one 11-pound ball of adorable fuzz can create such an abomination assault to the senses is beyond me. Sometimes I can barely contain my chagrin and have to express it aloud and loudly and ask her, "What the fuck IS that???"
You haven't lived until you've witnessed me futzing with a tiny black Allen wrench, a gigantic Cooper Bold question mark dangling over my pretty little head as I follow pictorial instructions for the assembly of a TV stand that are so basic and simple that even a 56-year-old Jewish infant in a poorly lit room, with absolutely no knack for "manual labor", let alone patience, should be able to complete the task with a minimum of kvetching, crying, and/or cursing. I'm pleased to report that at least there were no tears. This is about as butch as I get, kidz.
I've never been much of a party person. While I'm thrilled to be invited, once beyond the initial excitement, and thinking, "What would I wear?" I'm filled with dread and reservations, especially if I've RSVP'd that I'll be attending. The thing is, I usually don't know many people at any party since I don't have a "circle" of friends, most of them being one-offs I usually only see one-on-one, so I always feel like an awkward outsider. I stick to the periphery, near the food and, of course, any dog in attendance, and that's more than good enough for me.
I think the neighbor whose apartment shares a wall with the area where my bed rests is learning how to play the drums at night. I also think he has no talent or skill, because over the course of however long he's been taking lessons, which I suspect are self-directed, he hasn't improved and seems capable of only one "beat", one that sounds so elementary that I can't believe anyone would need more than two days to master it. I certainly hope he enjoys Alexa's frequent loud early morning announcements informing me (him) (us) of the day's weather and time.
Morton tells me his mother used to ride him like a pony when he was a toddler. He gets down on all fours on my office floor to demonstrate the position, and I tell him to get up, that I know what the position is because it's common but that it's not common for a parent to be the rider instead of the pony. I hate that we might be treading into gross territory, but then he hands me a well-preserved photo from his wallet, showing his mother was the size of a Barbie doll. "Oh, she's pretty," I say.
You know what? ANYONE but "him". The lowercase "him", not the uppercase "Him", because he's not a god or God, no matter how much he believes he's one or the other or both, and although I don't believe in either the lowercase or uppercase, I believe in this "him" even less.
Whoever winds up running for President who isn't HIM gets my vote in 2020. Even if the person isn't perfect and I don't love that person, that person is not this festering heap of sewage masquerading as one, this repugnant "shtick dreck mit oygen" (piece of shit with eyes).
I should've known better than to ask Alexa for delivery notifications when my cat is home. She recently announced two deliveries, including short descriptions of my cat's birthday presents, thus ruining the surprise. I "legit" was pissed that I hadn't changed notification settings to exclude descriptions and annoyed that I asked for notifications when it wasn't necessary, and may have cursed, which naturally was necessary. Of course, now my cat is also annoyed that I think so little of her that I consider dried shrimp treats and a catnip toy in the shape and color of a rainbow sufficient gifts.
Gotta love when someone posts a photo of his* food, whether at home or at a restaurant, and other people are compelled to vomit up comments telling him he better be careful, he shouldn't eat like that, it's too much food, it's not healthy, it looks gross, they could never eat that much, "where do you put it?", especially if it's not food the person would eat every day or he probably wouldn't be the healthiest person around. Can't someone have occasional fun with food without someone else rushing in like a combination stern parent/nagging spouse/concerned cardiologist/chiding nutritionist/fucking asshole?
JFC, Facebook, don't you know me well enough by now to know that I never, ever, ever want to see anything about "pale0" (I used a zero instead of the letter "o" in an attempt to NOT have this alert you to send me more of this unwelcome poppycock)? Stop. If you really knew me at all, based on what I do online, you'd show me stuff about french fries, dogs, gogo boots, and "old New York" instead, for the love of fuck. Get a grip. Oh, and don't even think about slipping in crap about "ket0" (same parenthetical comment).
I'm like a three-year-old with my food recently. All I want to eat at home is air-fried tofu (SECRET RECIPE UPON REQUEST!!! Full disclosure: It contains tofu!) drizzled with tahini and coconut aminos (I'll divulge what brand if you ask!!! Caveat: You must say "Please"!), with a heap of steam-in-the-bag mixed vegetables that remind me of 1974, often with an extremely generous ladle or four of quick-cooking grits into which I've tossed a slice of vegan cheese. The only this could be better would be if I also had mashed potatoes (not as a sub for the grits, but alongside).
As the decade comes to a close, 20 years after we were braced with anxiety for "Y2K" and all its attendant doom and disasters, people are taking stock of their lives, assessing what they've achieved in the past ten years regarding career, family, friends, health, and however they define "success" and this thing called happiness, scrolling through Excel spreadsheets to analyze finances, creating keepsake video collages of memorable moments, I find myself, while seated on the subway with a stranger's crotch at mouth level, in quiet contemplation, still unable to decide which word grosses me out more: genitals or genitalia.
I strut around town in my late '60s and early-to-mid-'70s duds with all the cockiness of Tony Manero to a silent '70s soundtrack playing in my head (I never cut myself off from city sounds while out and about), pretending it's still the '70s. It's the only way I can survive as an NYC resident without wanting to cry that it's not still the '70s. (Of course I still cry.)
Wearing clothes from that time (my kindergarten through sophomore years) is a shield against 2019, and in the colder months, a very heavy vintage coat's weight is a comforting cocoon.
The other day, in my haste to cram eat something seconds after it finished cooking, I burned the roof of my mouth to the point of a blister, which naturally I had to press on with my fingers and tongue to irritate further because apparently the blister itself wasn't painful enough. Now, perhaps unrelated, I have what to my tongue feels like gouges in the same area and a sore throat, so if I complain verbally, I sound like Jackie Mason's grandfather instead of a sexy blend of Brenda Vaccaro and Demi Moore. So I complain in writing. You're welcome.
I went to a friend's show on a Friday night on East 4th. It took two subways, which is the maximum I'm willing to take, even though I do so grudgingly because I hate transfers even if they're easy. I exited at Broadway-Lafayette, a stop I don't use often, so that made the experience more exciting. On the way back, though, having to wait on the platform for the train's arrival, it was the complete opposite. Where the fuck all the dregs came from is beyond me, but now I know to use that stop only as an arrival point.
I rush to "pin" another recipe to Pinterest, including only recipes that don't require acquiring any difficult skill/methods, don't take three days to complete, and don't make use of store-bought vegan cheese or "meat" (I make my own "sausage" that's better than store-bought), drooling and making mental lists of ingredients, or even adding them to Our Groceries, knowing full well that when it comes time to make dinner, I'll go with my stand-by air-fried tofu, steamed bag of vegetables, and tahini/coconut amino dressing/sauce, heaped (prettily) on a nice plate so I at least don't come off like a complete bachelor.
I want, right now:
1. Ethiopian combo platter with endless injera;
2. Indian buffet and three or six hours to eat all I can;
3. Dim sum on Pell Street;
4. Lekka burger with "everything" fries;
5. Veselka's kasha-stuffed cabbage;
6. A Potato knish from Murray's Sturgeon Shop;
7. Cumin tofu and Brussels sprouts at Spicy Moon;
8. At least four slices of pizza from Screamers;
9. French fries from at least four different diners;
10. Warm brownie topped with two scoops of Van Leeuwen ice cream and hot fudge.
Note I did not indicate "or" between the enumerated items.
I hate that I yell at my cat for parking her ass in front of the monitor, and I always tell myself I'm not going to do it anymore, but damn it if she doesn't leap onto the desk, crawl right in front of my face, and park there like an inert loaf of rye waiting to be sliced and assembled into a Reuben. Now, if she'd sit slightly off to the side and prepare a Reuben (using a meat substitute, of course), with the rye bread toasted to perfection, and a side of fries, I couldn't and wouldn't complain.
Fuck the vicious, vile scourge known as Michael Vick and anyone who doesn't have a problem with him being allowed to return to the NFL. People who think animal advocates or even just people with hearts, souls, minds, and memories should "move on" are no friend of mine. Or of dogs. Knowing dogs the way anyone who loves dogs does, the "Vicktory" dogs who survived the unfathomable, unspeakable, horrors heaped on them, like so many abused dogs, no doubt still give out kisses and wags because they're far superior to so-called human beings. Not that Vick even qualifies as human.
If you're ever talking to me in person and think I may be a little "off" and my actions confuse you because they're more bizarre than usual, like, beyond spontaneously breaking into "The Robot" dance or speaking in "dog voice" even when there's not a dog in sight or making every inanimate object around me "talk", and you're wondering if you should ask if I'm okay, simply say something "resonates" with you, and if I don't cringe to the point of my bones almost shattering, you'll know you're talking to a "pod" version of me and to alert the authorities.
Do not watch "Christmas Wedding Planner" on Netflix, no matter how much you think it sounds "kinda cute" or might be okay to have in the background while you're folding laundry, dusting, or self-trepanning. Do yourself the favor I did not afford myself and avoid it at all costs, except if you want to see some of the worst acting in the history of bad acting and want to shout, "Oh, come the fuck on!" at the end after already just muttering it throughout the thing. It's not even bad-good the way some Lifetime movies or Afterschool Specials are/were. PASS.
I devoured six homemade baby Bundts last night. I've never been more thankful that I live with no other people. Not just because I wouldn't have wanted to pretend to want to share them with someone else ("Please, be my guest," offering it on a pretty plate, begrudgingly and smiling through gritted teeth) but because I wouldn't want anyone (other than my cat) witnessing me cramming them into my cake-hole like there was not only no tomorrow but no next-hour or next-minute.
Today I am grateful for the gym, even though it opened "late" at 7 a.m.
Happy Thanksgiving, twerps!
If you ever receive an odd telephone call, text, or other correspondence from me where I use the word "blessed", especially in the context of "I am blessed", that's a SUREFIRE, IRON-CLAD GUARANTEE that I've been kidnapped, and you are to alert the authorities immediately because my life, or at least sanity and self respect, is in grave danger because I'm being held captive by monsters who'd force me to use that word/phrase against my will, unaware that it's as unnatural of an utterance for me as "I'd love to go on a cruise" or "Meet me in Times Square".
December will be a "lean" month thanks to slow work in November, so I'll be relying on the food that already exists in the groovy vintage canisters and in the kitchen cabinets, just "filling in" with vegetables and tofu as necessary and tahini (an absolute must!), and, natch, coffee and chocolate almond milk (my "creamer"), but other than that, no extraneous "fun" food, snacks, or boxes of raisin bran that have zero chance of surviving in this apartment longer than the one hour it takes to devour them. (Meanwhile, of course, I'm daydreaming about Raisin Nut Bran by General Mills.)
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