This past weekend was a close friend from Brown’s bachelorette party. Every third night is a bachelorette party for me in terms of the amount that I drink, so I wasn’t expecting anything too crazy.
What I was expecting was a nice weekend away with some of my girlfriends, at a hotel with a pool…in Williamsburg.
Because yes, there is a hotel with a pool in Williamsburg, and it’s called the King & Grove.
I’m in a tizzy right now, because I was just walking Caleb’s dog Franke, and she bit his next door neighbor on her fucking leg. Look at this little fucking monster.
The worst of it is that I haven’t showered, and I was wearing a turquoise gingham skirt that makes me look like a mentally retarded adult, a navy tank top I usually wear running, a pair of hot pink flip flops, eyeliner I cried off during a nervous breakdown yesterday at noon, and the gigantic fucking cold sore that appeared, like a good omen, on my mouth this morning.
(The East River from Brooklyn, Yesterday Evening)
There’s nothing much to do in New York City today besides wait for Hurricane Irene. The subways are down, the streets are desolate, and most of the stores are closed. I actually have no idea if the stores are closed, because I’m still in bed. BUT THE SITUATION SEEMS EXTREMELY SERIOUS, AND I AM WORRIED THAT I MIGHT STARVE TO DEATH IF I CAN’T ORDER FOOD FOR DELIVERY.
The talking heads wearing pancake make-up seem to think that this will be one of the worst storms ever to hit New York City, which is kind of awesome. Except, of course, if I die, or lose power, the latter being worse, because then the cable will go down, and I won’t be able to watch the absolutely riveting coverage on the Weather Channel.
I’m three blocks from the East River in Williamsburg, buffeted from the water by the hulking condos on the shoreline, which look like Sheraton Hotels transplanted from Fort Lauderdale for douchebags retiring from decency. They were evacuated yesterday. If you gather together all of the people not in their right mind in New York, and subtract my family, all you have left are homeless people and the 20 people living in those condos, so the evacuation only took six minutes.
It’s usually about this time every year that I get so melancholy that I break down, and visit my family’s psychiatrist. “I am very depressed,” I say to him, lip trembling, upon arrival at his office.
“Sorry ‘bout your luck,” he tells me. “Here’s a bill for $400.”
And then he sends me home.
This summer, however, I am happier than I have been since 2003, when I decided that I would rather kill myself than suffer through another resume building internship in an office building in Manhattan. So I spent my days out by my parent’s pool, reading Robert Jordan, and my nights waitressing at a local restaurant. By the end of the summer, I had made $15,000 in cash. I was free, and I was happy, and I was richer than I’d ever be again. “This is one way I can live that is unexpected,” I realized.
But the next summer, I graduated, and took a prestigious job. In the years that followed, I martyred myself in a string of offices. I filled my calendar with networking events, and dinners with useful people whom I secretly hated. I endured it for all of the fall and winter months. It was what I was supposed to do, and it made me feel successful.