hello9

Spooked.

Tonight, amidst the writhing, nubile flotsam of Bedford Avenue, I turned a corner and nearly bumped into the one ghost I've allowed myself in the past few years. I'm reasonably sure I gasped audibly, I sidestepped away from his forward motion, ducked my head, and skittered away, tail between my legs.

I couldn't express what had just happened to Claire. Nothing had happened. Just like nothing happened ten months ago that caused me to behave this way. But I was seriously spooked. This ghost, Coach... originally to hannah (and later, to me), he died when heath ledger died, that the two were just one destructive mass of wasted talent. This is a spectre of grumpy three am threats when we slept on the couches in the air conditioning, of white hearts on the fourth of July, of Wednesdays.

Every Wednesday last summer, the not-yet-ghost-Coach and I would watch two or three movies, and drink two or three bottles of red wine. He'd cook me steak frites and I'd run down to the store to get more peanut oil, not quite daytime drunk at this point, but well on the way to a bordeaux tinted laziness. He liked dark toned movies set in Europe or the 50's, I learned to like red meat. He was a bartender, and self destructive in the necessitated by his vampiric schedule. We had a ball. And then we were stupid-drunk and hooked up. It was very quotable. and he got weird, as he had a girlfriend, and I went back to vassar.

I've been in touch with our mutual friends and I knew I'd probably see him again, but I was more expecting it to be on my terms, and with some warning. So, it was probably immature of me to bolt when I saw him on the block tonight. But sometimes, awkwardness is unavoidable, and the best course of action is to dart away.
Or something.

Man, i totally got "coach-ed" again tonight, unintentionally!

deleteria

I promised myself I'd go to bed early so I could go to work early and Get Things Done.
I spent $$ I should be saving for rent (so I can move out of my parents' apartment) on a cab, so that I could get home at A Reasonable Hour.
I am still awake, putzing around online.
Sigh. But David and I spent a good two hours (with the company of his israeli cousin and courtney donner) deconstructing early ninties television. He quoted equus, I giggled into my third glass of wine on an empty stomach. We're pure class, and I'm so glad to have this brand new partner in crime whilst my former p-i-c's have deserted me for larger scale adventures (see: Las vegas, new orleans; card playing, cocks.)
--

I was the recipient of a backhanded catcall in the half a block I walked home tonight. Someone started shouting "Excuse me, excuse me." Which is of course the cue to avert your eyes, pick up your pace, and get where ever you're going without recognizing the Caller. But this guy went a step further-- into balls out honest territory.

"Excuse me! Excuse me! I'm desperate. Honey, I'm desperate."

Well, glad to know that if I was the last woman on earth, it'd still be okay. (I looked cute today too! Like a sailor!) He kept shouting until I was out of earshot.

--

Today I'm trying to figure out two things.

1. Do I like cats? Many of the flatmates Claire and I are considering want to bring cats. This would not bother me. But I am considering getting one myself, and I wonder if I have the emotional reserves to love a creature that could do just as well without me.

2. Do I want my hair cut like Edie Sedgewick, or Andy Warhol?
(to be honest, I'm leaning towards Andy.)
OR