The Usual

I could tell you about my day, I could. I could tell you of Pilates and boots and how groovy I felt wearing a new pair of pants. How I need a haircut and want to change stylists. I could tell you about the other day, when a cashier at the Gap near Times Square tried to cheat me out of 75 cents. I could tell you of the books I read, the subways I took, the stories I wrote, the dances I tapped, the lunches I ate. I could tell you so many things that piss me off and so many things that don’t. I could tell you what my mom and I talked about on the phone (because contrary to what you may have learned from Sex and the City, girls here actually do have moms and talk to them) this weekend. How I ran in the rain yesterday and probably sounded like a lunatic as I “awwww”d every single dog I encountered.
But I won’t. I’ll just go to bed now. All those things I won’t write about, well, they wore me out. But tomorrow I may tell you something more detailed. Or maybe I’ll just say “ditto”, like Patrick Swayze in Ghost.
Who knows.