That's a Metaphor, Not a Reality

Yesterday was insane. Boxes were flying at me right and left.

It was the first time I could see why one of my coworkers has an ulcer.

It was the first time I wanted to cry. At work. BECAUSE of work. Now, there's a switch.

But at least for now, all is Quiet on the Cubicle Front.

On the upside, my office crush instigated email banter. Which I've decided is the young urban professional's version of passing me a note in Homeroom. I checked the "yes" box.

If I'm feeling brave (and I have a feeling this will be in direct proportion of how much caffeine I consume today), I may invite him along to go see Conor perform at the Bowery Poetry Club tonight.

I have this thing, now into my second year in New York. I wonder if it's the same for everyone. But it was such an eventful year, I now compare everything I'm doing now to what I was doing this time last year. I hope it's just a second-year thing. Because we're about to enter territory that I really don't feel like reliving.

It wasn't until Kristen was telling me about Brazil day while she was here, that I realized that Eric and I had gone to it the year before. Holy Hell, ERIC. I know. I can hardly imagine. And after he visited, I got all freaked out and fucked around with Sleazy. And thus began my descent into madness.

I wished I had drank so much that every happy memory became erased with the bad. I guess that's very Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind of me.

But having to go to the Lady Doctor the other day, I realized I was expecting all this Shame and Judgement for my year of sexual activeness. When I searched her face for any sign of judgement, it wasn't there. I guess I forget that this is New York; and even on my wildest night, I'm still probably Strawberry Shortcake in relation to so many activities that New Yorkers get themselves mixed up in. I guess in the end, for all my Sexual Empowerment, I still feel a little Victorian hangover of Any-Sexual-Activity-Is-A-Bad-One. But as long as there are phermones floating around, you can make Parcheesi a sexual activity. There's just no avoiding it. And I've been as safe as I could be (physically, emotionally I sort of wound up in trench warfare) and I'm okay with myself. So I should stop feeling like a diseased-spreading-whore. Because I'm not. Screw you, society, for giving me these conflicted feelings! And by screw you, I mean that metaphorically. I don't think you're ready for THIS jelly.