Since You've Been Gone...

Yeah, I just referenced Kelly Clarkson.

Fuck off.

She's cool. See?

I felt vaguely dissatisfied yesterday. I was a bit of a raw nerve. I did some digging and found an astrological explanation for it. Something in my stars asked for me to keep a little quiet because the little things would set me off. So I avoided all my 87234678243598 blogs and tried not to take anything too seriously that was said. But I certainly felt the drain and really had to consciously avoid the trappings of my over-sensitive nature.

So I put all of that on the stove and left it to simmer. And it worked almost all through the day. Almost.

I even got out of on-call. My wrangler for such things said that we didn't have much and that I could go. Woo hoo! See? The universe isn't so bad.

I go out with two coworkers (yes, indeedy) and we went to a bar where his brother worked and I got my drinks paid for. Woo hoo! This was actually very good, because this place reminded me of the sort of place in Daniel's show. Uber-trendy. There wasn't a drink under $11. I'm not used to any kind of bar that doesn't have a whiskey shot-and-PBR special. And clean bathrooms? Forget about it.

I walk to the subway and wind up on the wrong side of the street. First sign of trouble. It's starting to get late and that's when the subways become fairly unreliable. And knowing me and my luck, I was on the wrong side of the street listening to the subway I needed go zooming off to Brooklyn without me.

grrr. (not capital, though)

I cross the street and go down the right way to the subway. Much to my weary surprise, the subway comes immediately. Well, phhht. I'm just silly. Silly, silly girl.

I sit down and bust out my People magazine (dear Lord, apparently yesterday I was just about as girly as they come--but hey, Jude Law was on the cover. Come on, people. That was one lucky nanny. How come none of the people I babysat for were Jude Law?) I am embracing the mind-numbing nature of said magazine, when all of a sudden, someone is telling me I need to get off the train.

Wait, what did I do?

Oh wait, everyone's getting off the train.

Wait, why is everyone getting off the train?

"Is there going to be another train soon?" (coming up on midnight, folks)

"Sure, sure, soon."

The thing about New York?

It is filled with lies.

And to say the subways in summer with the humidity as it is is unbearable is like saying Requiem for a Dream was just about some people who were having a bit of a rough time. Kinda like that.

And before you comment, yes I know I'm getting link happy today. But it's like a rollercoaster. For blogs. Keep all hands and feet within the car, please. Try the veal. Just kidding on that last part, people. Veal is bad.

It is digusting down there. Everyone smells. I smell. I cannot even read my magazine to pass the time because I need to use it as a fan. I wait for what seems like FOR-FUCKING-EVER.

Grrrrrrrrrr...The stars have started giving me a wedgie.

I finally make it home. Devon has left a message about he is out with our fourth roommate Derek (not the one-eyed fifth roommate, mind you). Nice. I can have the place to myself. I can get out of these shoes that are killing me. I have a bodega right by my place where I can pick up a beer and just chill.

Go to the bodega.

"We don't have beer."

Wait a minute. Who the fuck goes to a 24 hour bodega to buy Gatorade? Like for reals.

Grr...argh...my feet hurt. I'm a greaseball. But I have deserved a beer, so I go to the other farther away bodega that I know has beer.

My neighborhood is eerily quiet. Except for groups of people drinking on their stoop (though apparently not from the nearby bodega---still trying to wrap my head around that one). They're all men. And they cat-call me in Spanish. I don't know everything they're saying, but I'm pretty sure they're not saying "You look like a classy lady. I want to take you to a nice dinner and shower you with presents."

Normally, this doesn't bug me. Today it bugs me. It makes me feel uneasy and a little unsafe.

It's fine. Whatever. I have my beer. I'm almost home.

I need to preface this that I have about a bazillion keys to get into my apartment. I have to get a key just to think about getting out a key. The second door had always been propped open when I came home. Tonight it's not. And tonight the universe decides to let me know that none of my 2903593475 keys open that goddamn second door.

Straws. Camels. Broken backs.

Poor Blythe. She had the misfortune of answering the phone when I was in my state on the other line. Sounded something like this:

"[pure rage pure rage nothing I'm talking about is any sort of real problem but I'm just fed up with this day so ROAR and HULK SMASH and pure rage pure rage]"

I don't think any of this would have bugged me this much if it weren't for an astrological pull and the heinous nature of the humidity. If the air wasn't stale, I would have sat out there with the cat-calling Latinos and had my beer and chuckled about how ridiculous it is that the management gave me a thousand keys and none of them work on the second door, but I'm pretty sure one opens the key to the Lost City of Gold. It could have even stayed humid, a simple breeze might have calmed my rageful soul.

Whatever. Thanks, Blythe, for keeping me from the brink. That girl, I swear.

I obviously had left many a desperate message for Devon. He gets back to me:

"That's not possible. It has to work."

"Darling, welcome to way beyond possible. It's actually happening and [another round of rage rage rage]"

He and Derek hop in a cab to come rescue me. I talk to Abby in the meantime. They come home.

I meet Derek. Seems nice. I tell him the story of the FIFTH roommate and he says he can never look at Travis the same way. I love doing that to people. I will tell you stories you can never take back. It's my way of changing the world.

I calm down. Nothing of this is tragic, it just felt that way. Go to sleep, Carrie 2: The Rage.

I snicker about it this morning.