A lot of things I do, I do because it seems as if it would happen that way in a movie.

I have been writing lately, but my scribbles are mostly contained to bits of paper I find in my bag or big wads of paper folded in half like the book I'll never write.
In the past two months I have become single, become self destructive (in legal and seemingly fun-at-the-time ways), gotten on track, and am considering now if being on track is worth its price of security. I have also officially finished with Ramapo, officially finished with labelling myself into any sexual identity box, and have decided that the 2 years I was going to take until I started grad school should be 3. I am your typical recent college graduate.. living in New York City... not completely in awe of the place, but secretly harboring all those dreams anyone has when they move here... That some great love will find me, a great tragedy will befall me, or that all of my answers will be conveniently found tidied up in a box somewhere in some bustling crowd or jostling subway car.
I am reading a book right now called Bridgeport Bus and it is about a woman who experiences all those feelings when coming to New York.. but she is a 35 year old virgin (not for long; deflowered by the stout but charming blusher Stanly Scarzinski;; a lovely polish man) who is escaping from her Connecticut home and over weight/overbearing mother. I haven't any of those things .. virginity, polish men, or a mother who cries because her daughter has disappointed her on all fronts. I guess I'm the better for it.
..

I keep seeing women .. grown women.. with age inappropriate shirts.. Like this little old woman I saw on my way to the train today... :Look but don't touch: written in street graffiti style script on her chest. Old enough to be my grandmother. or Too Hot To Handle... I have a physical reaction .. my eyebrow raises and I half swallow. I think about my mom wearing something like that and have to laugh to myself.. my mother who, until I was 12, made sure all of my shirts covered my butt. I wonder now why she didn't start enforcing that rule when I was 15.

..

It is muggy and hot and all this cement doesn't help one bit. Everyone enters the subway with beads of sweat, welcoming the train with profusive pit stains, drenched collars, and legs that stick together (if you're wearing a skirt). At least that the trains are air conditioned, some respite from the heat that I have become used to above ground. Or beaten into submission .. is a better way for me to describe it.. worn into complacency? I walk around oblivious to the sweat saturating my bra and I've stopped dreaming of winter. I am too hot to be bothered. Whaddya gonna do? Complain? What's the use? (the little yenta in my head exclaims)