Won’t even lie. After a certain point passed and I hadn’t posted, it was like an elementary student receiving grades in the mail. The longer you don’t look at it, the easier it is to pretend it’s not there – until you’re parents delicately pillage your desk drawer a month later and ask you why you’ve been hiding it. “Is there something you want to tell me, Sarah Ann?” Ugh, the first AND middle name = screwed.
You had zero idea what your grades were, you just wanted to err on the side of caution, you say. God forbid your grades WERE terrible, you didn’t want to bother your parents with that silly nonsense. When it comes to effortless guilt trips, the I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed face or the one person who will always kill a bottle of wine with you, mom is always there.
So it was when I woke up to an email from her this morning with the subject “I’m Missing…” and the body, “….reading funny blogs”, that was the ultimate long-distance passive aggressive disappointment.
Lucky for her, Saturday was the culmination of anything that’s gone decent in the past couple months gone to shit. I’ll start from the beginning (of today – to hell would I bore you with the past two months. That’s not why you’re here, after all).
Saturday’s are my lazy days – Sunday is lazier; however both are on level playing fields. Barclays Premiere League commenced, so I went to meet a friend at a bar to catch the Chelsea game. I’ve adapted and learned to listen to music while I walk. I learned quickly, as we did the same in Boston. The reasoning, however, is different. In New York, you listen to music while you walk for two reasons: 1. You can tell who is or isn’t a city resident based largely on the fact if they’re listening to music. 2. It blocks out the shameless hoots, hollers and “You look mighty tasty today” ‘s that is of the male population in New York City.
I need to find my walking-chi in this city. What I mean is, pulling off effortless swag while trying not to eat asphalt. Fail not, my feet always find the cracks in the sidewalk, uneven cobblestone and the dips and bumps in the street.
Trying to pull my not so sexy wind-blown hair from my sunglasses and lipgloss like an uncoordinated 2 year old, I simultaneously step on something squishy. Since I wore sandals, the room temperature squishiness tidal waved onto my foot.
Fortunately, NOT poop. Unfortunately, Boston Cream Pie donut filling. Awesome, strangers saliva-filled, half eaten, sun-warmed cream filling oozing onto my sandal and foot. I look up to see a pharmacy and start to slip ‘n slide over. I glance to my left and see a middle-aged woman spewing whatever made her so god-awful sick. It’s noon, mind you. Not sure what the point of aiming was either, the trash bag-less trash can was like a machine gun barrel aimed right at my creme-filled foot.
I’ve heard that if an end to your story sucks then you conclude with, “and then I found 20 bucks.”
Well I did. I watched a man dropped $20 but didn’t want to look like THAT asshole that proceeds to take the money so I called after him and returned the bill.
Then I locked myself out of my apartment. Ta-fucking-da.