From the Vault: I Thought About It

Call me naive, call me stupid, call me an obtuse, self-deluding narcissist (actually, please keep your negative criticism to yourselves), but I find it both uncanny and more-than-slightly troubling that after thirteen+ years of life in New York I continue to feel the way I described in the rudely scrawled narrative below, dated May, 1993. The only thing that has definitively changed since then is the view from the window (as pictured). And I have traded in certain portions of my tired, ill-fitting, frumpy wardrobe for strangely-cut awkward styles unsuitable to my age and station. True, I also wear more black than I did back then, but this never stops me from feeling alienated at parties. However, instead of contemplating suicide, now I just drink more. It's easier, usually less messy, and either way I'll go home alone. Which is probably a good thing, since I still seem to attract especially weird men in inappropriate party attire.

For those without the latest maxi-widescreen LCD flat-panel monitors, click on the image to see it in magnum. I make no promises re: legibility. Also: handwriting - still bad. Also: no longer a "young person."

From the Vault: Can I Call You Later?

Tales of an Underacheiver

Apparently, there was a time when I had real potential:
Some people (most of whom are doting friends and family) still maintain (usually when they've had a few too many Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers) that I could have become a vaguely recognized poet, a widely ridiculed but brilliant literary scholar, a loving and devoted mother, or even someone with a voracious appetite for cheap mystery novels, entirely alien to the blogosphere. But my high school out-droppin', ice cream sandwich-gorging, never-have-time-to-go-to-the-gym-complaining, too-tired-to-do-anything-but-tv-watchin', navel-gazing, solipsistic, and reclusive nature has had the last word, at least for the rest of this decade.

Since I moved to this great city - the city of my forebears, which I love and would gladly die for, or in - many rare and gloatworthy opportunities have come my way and gone, and according to my meticulous records, I've now come full circle. This primitive cartoon, circa summer 1993, provides the incontravertable evidence with which I can finally prove my support network wrong, once and for all. (For those in the network without magnifying spectacles, a click on the embedded images will suffice.)



Oddly - or not - in 13 years not much has changed, except the following:

Grandfather now dead

Almost pushing 40

"V.D." now referred to as "S.T.D"

No longer a virgin

Also, it has been called to my attention that "Destiny" and its child (fig. 1, bottom center) are now collectively known as Beyoncé, a subsidiary of Pepsico.