Fuck! My boss called me when I was still asleep this afternoon and convinced me to work the bar tonight, even though I have a date with Alex. I figured he wouldn't mind, but now that I'm thinking more clearly I realize that this will be the third broken date in a row. Not so good. But cute barista boy is working tonight... not that I have any excuse for actual contact with him, since I'm supposed to stay behind my bar, rousing myself periodically from my bored stupor to pour a glass of wine for the waitress.
So Mr. CondeNasty left his glamorous job at the aforementioned publishing house and, starting on Monday, will be working as a banker. Huh? Regardless, I made out with him in Union Square. He thinks I'm damn sexy! Hee-hee!
Chain smoking in the bedroom again... not good. Echoes of last fall, except for this time my window only opens about two inches at the top, which is not good for air circulation. But I have an excuse! New York City has been struck by an insane storm, featuring frequent lightening and rivers
of rain in the streets. Why is it that none of the gutters in the city actually drain water, as is their intended purpose?
I've got a hot date with Mr. CondeNasty tomorrow (tonight)! I went shopping with Jessica, a new friend from London, and bought a shirt specially for the occasion. It reminds me pleasantly of the one Reese Witherspoon wore in that movie, only much more likely to have been made in a sweat shop. Here's hoping that the pint of Ben & Jerry's I just consumed doesn't make me look like even more of a sausage in it! A kosher one. I am a foxy Jewish lady, after all.
If you can't get a girl but you best friend can it's time to MOVE YOUR BODY!
You know what else I hate, other than Columbia students who slum it downtown? I hate people who write me off as a spoiled, self-centered rich girl because I'm lucky enough to have parents who pay my tuition. Yeah, so Daddy has a good job. That doesn't mean that the holes left in my bank account by the fat checks I write to my parents and to my creditors every month are magically replaced. It doesn't make me any less tired when I get off a long waitressing shift at 2:30 in the morning. So don't fucking try to screw me over because "she can afford it."
Very important note: Online journals should be used to update friends on what's going on in your life. Entertain strangers. Vent without feeling like it's gone nowhere except the desk drawer. They should not be used to record personal secrets. Or to insult friends, like a passive-aggressive cunt, who you know for a fact read the journal occasionally.
I am in such a foul mood - I want to go buy cigarettes. And this must mean I'm REALLY pissed off, because I haven't bought any in three weeks. So here's the question: Walk all the way to Broadway & Bond to withdraw cash, or be lazy and pay the $1.75 surcharge, thus bringing the total cost of a pack to $9.25?
Is it, like, totally pathetic that I marked the SATC premiere in my organizer? What about switching shifts at work so I can attend a party in honor of the event? Hmm?
We-e-ell. Alex and his mysterious lady friend from the other night have broken up, or so he told me when he called this morning. Now that he's a "free agent," as he put it, we're going to get together for a drink this week. I hope he isn't planning to resume our beautiful relationship, because even though it was very comfy, I keep having visions of me pushing him around in a wheelchair a few years from now. After all, the man is 17 years older than me, and out of work actors aren't exactly hooked up all over the city. But he does call me "sweetie," and it doesn't make me cringe. Background: this is the guy I was dating for about a month last fall, not-so-coincidentally right after I stopped updating this journal. There is evidently an inverse relationship between the amount of play I'm getting and how often I write.
I slept until 2pm today, and was abruptly woken up by a damn fire drill. Caryne (my suitemate, who also sleeps late) and I went to the diner across the street for breakfast instead of milling around on the sidewalk with all the other residents. Blueberry pancakes! I'm loving my new carbohydrate-rich existence. Not so much the rolls around my middle.
What's up with all the Columbia and Barnard students living/taking classes at NYU for the summer? If it's so much better below 14th Street (which it is), why don't they just fucking transfer? It's so not fair for them to get the ivy league degree AND benefit from the inherent coolness of us Violets. Didn't they read Alice in Wonderland? Which reminds me, when I went to the Tate Britain museum in London I saw the actual, original illustrations painted for the first edition of that book. How cool is that!
Holy God, I'd forgotten all about this baby. I'd actually forgotten that I ever went by the pseudonym 'Vivian X.' I do, however, still like the name Vivian, and I was haunting Madame X just the other day (asking for a job, that is), so it seems that the spirit of this journal is still strong within me! Apparently people I don't even KNOW used to read it - thanks for the info Graham - so now I guess I have a duty to my loyal (helloooo?) readers to start writing again. Except now I don't really want to share my deep dark secrets if they're going to be on computer screens all over the world. And yes, I did pick up a few secrets in London that I still haven't told anyone. Here are a few hints:
Walid = temporary benefactor
Embarrassing question at eye exam = yes
Eaten = suitmate's peanut butter
Oh yeah, and on a slighly less personal note, the barista at my new job is a total cutie! He's dishy, as my drama teacher last semester was so fond of saying. British professors are great, by the way - if they're female they say things like "dishy" and "mah-velous," and make catty comments about people's "hideous frocks." If they're male they have cute butts and eyes that twinkle kindly. Hello Des! About the barista though... His name is Adam and I've been flirting with him as madly as possible while staying within friend territory. Which is probably as far as it'll ever go, because he was sporting a lovely set of hickeys on his neck this morning ("fell down the stairs"). They didn't hold a candle to the ones Tamon gave me during my break in Seattle though!
What else is new? Here's a random sampling:
still thinks I'm a man. My purity level has RISEN since I last took the test, even though I feel much, much dirtier. I'm not sure if this should concern me or not, as I can't remember if I lied on the first test to make myself feel cooler. Or maybe I started washing my hands more often? That could be it.
-I've given up on the Atkins diet. The last few days have been spent celebrating this sad fact by eating Milanos and putting - get this! - raspberry vinaigrette on my salad instead of olive oil. Living the crazy life!
-I download a bunch of Robbie Williams songs and videos last week because I wanted to understand why he's such a big deal in Britain, and now I have that "Rock DJ" song stuck in my head nonstop, and am picturing him throwing bloody slabs of his own skin at supermodels while dancing naked. And the thing is, I like it. The song, that is, not the video - the video is way too gory and frankly, Robbie doesn't look that good naked anyway.
-I'm still mad at Henry (to be explained later, when I feel like it, if ever) and am considering sending him a long-distance voicemail containing one of those sounds the military is developing that are so horrible they make people throw up. I hope he throws up on his ex-ex-girlfriend.