York.

The musings of a Brooklyn girl in love with the world.

I dance in empty hallways and elevators <3.

Whatever

Sitting in some stool at some bar in Anyplace, USA. Drinking an awful wine blend, listening to a new acquaintance complain about whatever in her new Whocares? when I hear the faint whine of an acoustic guitar playing the song we spent many a night talking over in Brooklyn. And it’s like I never left, like I never wanted to. 

It’s more difficult than you’ll ever know… to move on, to grow up, to change. It comes standard for some, for me… not so much 

That Time I “Dated” a Child

Our age is determined by how many times we’ve revolved around the sun. At no point should this number be taken into consideration when making judgments about maturity, ability, or wisdom. I can totally understand why there is an age where we’re considered “legal” and why it’s morally fucked to sleep with someone significantly (legally) younger than you, but as an adult, age should just cease to exist as a reference point for another person’s emotional development. 

I say this all to explain why I stand behind my title, I dated a child. Sure he was 40 and a professor at a very prestigious University, but for all intents and purposes he had the depth of a 13 year old boy who has never seen a woman naked. 

It started innocently enough, we had drinks with his colleague at a hip bar in Bushwick followed by more drinks at a dive. His friend slipped out between whiskey gingers somewhere and suddenly I was acutely aware of how many times he was mentioning that he had just received Moneyball on DVD from Netflix. 

"I can’t wait for the Tony’s" - me.
"I just got Moneyball on DVD from Netflix." -him.

"I think I might go home sometime this summer, I miss Miami." -me.
"Cool. I just got Moneyball on DVD from Netflix." -him

"I think I’m going to call it a night, I’m pretty knackered." -me.
"Are you sure? I just got Moneyball on DVD from Netflix." -him

That should’ve been enough of a hint. I should have left that divey bar in a blur, running full speed for the hills. But like any self respecting 20-something, I stayed. You know, for the experience. 

This is where it starts to get a little complicated. I lived in a building where we all knew each other. We were all young, recent college grads who had flocked to Bushwick for it’s “artist aesthetic”. Professor happened to be one of the inhabitants of this six unit apartment building, so going home from the bar alone that night proved to be more of a fight than I had in me, and as I found myself climbing awkwardly up the three flights of stairs to his two-bedroom I worried that maybe I was too old for this. 

As I walked into the similarly designed space, I felt … weird? He headed straight for the bedroom. It was only big enough to fit a queen sized bed, a dresser, and a monstrous television. He immediately suggested that we cuddle and watch Moneyball… that he had just received on DVD from Netflix. I agreed, thinking I might be able to fake sudden alcohol poisoning and safely escape to my oasis on the first floor once I got him settled in his own space. He rummaged in his drawers for something I couldn’t figure out and as I instinctively threw my arms up to catch whatever it was he was throwing at me, I realized that he had been looking for pajamas. Pajamas for me. Pajamas to wear while watching Moneyball.

Not ten minutes into the movie, he awkwardly kissed me in the hot, sticky room. He tasted of cheap whiskey and American Spirits and it wasn’t entirely a bad thing. I felt the familiar stirrings you get when you’re even vaguely interested in sleeping with someone new, and I sort of went with it. 

Since this blurb really isn’t about the sex, I’ll tell you that when we were cuddled in a post-coital heap, he said he’d like me to stay and spoon him. He’s a 6’5” man, I’m roughly 5’3”, it’s 102 degrees in New York, and the thought of relaxing beside this man I barely know seems incredibly daunting. I excuse myself after five minutes and crawl back into my cave on the first floor. 


I felt nothing but a mild sense of shame, followed by the sharp taste of those damn cigarettes. 

Just another day of me plugging my youtube videos ;) 

newyorker:

Bullshit writing way too early in the morning to be processing this crap.

It’s one of those New York mornings. My stomach hurts,
my head hurts,
hell my fucking heart hurts.

I’m barely coming to and what do I see I my mind’s eye but you?
I see the bar last night, the way you made me laugh.
I stretch my ankles and remember the way we danced to gangster rap.
And for some reason my mind feels like its on loop.
I’ve been here before.
I’ve felt this before.

As much as I try to make each one of you special,
It’s all the same deep down.
You want and want want
Until you don’t
And you’re gone.

This time wasn’t the worst
It won’t be the last.
Shame is I liked the way we laughed.

And I know you have a heavy heart; I can feel it when we kiss So many men stronger than me have thrown their backs out trying to lift it But me I’m not a gamble you can count on me to split The love I sell you in the evening, by the morning won’t exist.

—Lua. Bright Eyes

mollay:

i strive for it

I think this belongs on my OkCupid profile. If you blink you might miss it ;)

mollay:

i strive for it

I think this belongs on my OkCupid profile. If you blink you might miss it ;)

Goodnight Moon For Adults

In a small white room
Was a sleepy man
And the poster of…
Every member of the Wu Tang Clan
And some shards of glass from where a picture frame smashed
And bank statements I’m too paranoid to throw in the trash
An electric toothbrush and a can of Orange Crush
And an empty bowl and a sock with a hole
And a charging iPhone downloading Watch the Throne
And the sound of my neighbors blasting reggaeton
And a heap of laundry that needs to be cleaned
And Breaking Bad on Netflix on my laptop screen
And an overflowing closet without a door
And my ex-girlfriend’s shoes on the closet floor
And my Facebook timeline and my Twitter feed
And a shelf full of books that I’ll never read
A Red Sox hat, a basketball that’s flat
An external hard drive, and a stray receipt or five
Goodnight room. Goodnight moon.
Goodnight bowl and goodnight spoon.
Goodnight Rza and Dirt McGirt.
Goodnight all my pants and shirts.
Goodnight laptop. Goodnight meth.
Goodnight Cormac McCarthy and Zadie Smith.
Goodnight soda can. Goodnight receipts.
Goodnight Jay-Z’s rhymes. Goodnight Kanye’s beats.
Goodnight glass. Goodnight hat.
Goodnight wedge heel sandals I need to give back.
Goodnight iPhone’s gentle glow.
Goodnight Facebook friends I don’t even know.
Goodnight laundry growing stank.
Goodnight envelopes from Citizens Bank.
Goodnight hard drive full of mp3s.
Goodnight basketball that won’t bounce to my knees.
Goodnight Twitter. Goodnight Sonicare.
Goodnight reggaeton everywhere.

—By Josh Gondelman via Thought Catalog (via blonde-intern)

Me singing some Feist!

wordbrooklyn:

DYING.
darienlibrary:

One of our children’s librarians found this crumpled on the floor yesterday. Why anybody would be so careless with a Hogsmeade permission slip is beyond me! These things are priceless!
(We helped electronically with the crossing out, because originally the young witch-author wrote in her name and signed her mom’s name. At some point she thought better of it, scribbled them out, and swapped them for Hermione and her mum.)

wordbrooklyn:

DYING.

darienlibrary:

One of our children’s librarians found this crumpled on the floor yesterday. Why anybody would be so careless with a Hogsmeade permission slip is beyond me! These things are priceless!

(We helped electronically with the crossing out, because originally the young witch-author wrote in her name and signed her mom’s name. At some point she thought better of it, scribbled them out, and swapped them for Hermione and her mum.)

(via wordbookstores)

That first morning cry of the Starling stirs me from my half-sleep. I lay there, motionless trying very actively not to think of anything at all. My head is pounding, eyes are dry and bleary, my mouth feels like I&#8217;ve swallowed poison, which in retrospect I may as well have. Lazily, I let my gaze crawl around the room, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what I&#8217;m looking for. I see my shoes by the bed, my purse on the ground, its contents spilled and scattered. I recognize my skirt in a heap by the door, my blouse draped on a chair when the realization hits me like a ton of bricks. 
This is not my room.
The panic bubbles in my throat and there is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable turn-and-peek to see who is beside me. (This is one of those scenarios where the seconds actually do feel like hours.) My elbow touches something, &#8220;Ohgodohgodohgod&#8230; What the fuck have you done?!&#8221; 

That first morning cry of the Starling stirs me from my half-sleep. I lay there, motionless trying very actively not to think of anything at all. My head is pounding, eyes are dry and bleary, my mouth feels like I’ve swallowed poison, which in retrospect I may as well have. Lazily, I let my gaze crawl around the room, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what I’m looking for. I see my shoes by the bed, my purse on the ground, its contents spilled and scattered. I recognize my skirt in a heap by the door, my blouse draped on a chair when the realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

This is not my room.

The panic bubbles in my throat and there is nothing I can do to stop the inevitable turn-and-peek to see who is beside me. (This is one of those scenarios where the seconds actually do feel like hours.) My elbow touches something, “Ohgodohgodohgod… What the fuck have you done?!” 

(Source: verbsyndicate)