Downtown girls seem to have better sunglasses and darker manicures than the uptown breeds. But their winter hats are model-ugly, in that “it’s so ugly, but it could never make her look ugly” way.
I’m sitting on the corner of Crosby and Spring Streets, in a crowded Starbucks. It’s 5:30pm, and I’m just now getting my latte… which means it’s going to be a very late night. See, if I go home early… a.k.a. at a reasonable hour, he’ll get tired and want to go to sleep, which won’t do, ’cause I need. Need. Want. Need. And I’ll want him to stay up and play with me, but that’s selfish. So with all that, it’s really better for everyone if I just stay out, then come home to pass out, so as not to disturb. But then I run up against the whole, "why did you stay out so late?" thing. Except, I doubt he’d ever say that. That’s something I would say, so it’s really do onto others that should apply. See what it’s like to live in this head?
Last time I was in this particular Bucks, I met Monique and Yasmin (I miss them terribly… both left Manhattan and now only visit or write about visiting) for shopping when they were in town. Yasmin was carrying a white Tod’s hobo and wearing the second bracelet seen on this page (I don’t own enough bracelets). It was summer, but there was a threat of rain. I still want her bracelet and her bag and want to know if she keeps it in its own bag when it’s not in use. I don’t do that, even though I should. My friends who have beautiful things take very good care of them. I’m too reckless, no matter how much I love anything, or anyone.
There are lots of petite raven-headed curly girls down here. Size 2, Jewish girls with enormous breasts, literary types who carry their groceries in fabric bags. They only shop for books at The Strand. They burn incense and have a guitar in their rooms, even though they’ve never learned to play. They cannot cook but think they can. They’ve got names like Brenda or Debra, short A names.
When Yasmin and Monique got to Fourbucks, we left and hit the streets to shop. No one wanted to try on anything. Then the downpour landed us into Bloomingdale’s Soho, where while in the handbag department, I received a text message from a MID, reading: "I want to rub up against you right now." This is why I no longer speak with any of my exes.
A girl with flat leather knee boots walks a Weimaraner half her height. The handle of the dog’s leash is the same bright red as her boots. Red, it’s a color I’m really going to try to wear soon. I doubt she coordinated them, but she looks chic and probably lives in a loft with floor to ceiling windows. She owns plants too and keeps them alive. Her hair is short, which means she thinks she’s pretty. Girls who go short have confidence, or very feminine features. I’ll never go short.
I’m working on writing Book 2 down here, watching the light sink down as the neon traffic lights glow as they do in photographs. I love the cobblestone streets. The MoMA design store. The men who wear buttoned sweaters over their buttoned shirts, with wide brown belts, dark worn jeans, and non-athletic sneakers. I love that look. If I were a man, clothing shopping would be so much easier. I wonder if men think this way when they see women, think of how easy it would be to decide what they would wear. I doubt it.
Tonight I’m going to Kelley and Peng, Bowery to check out event space then to slurp noodles. I’m wearing my fat jeans, and there’s no room in there. I’m also wearing a black cashmere turtleneck with brown satin shoes. I love black and brown together. Navy and black too. I like breaking the rules, except when it comes to silver and gold; I hate mixing my metals. I don’t care so much about the fat jeans. That’s a lie. Oh, and I take it back; uptown girls have better sunglasses. Now that I’m a midtown girl, I don’t know that I belong here at all.
