Today I was supposed to go out and look at the snow, stamp fitfully to hear the noise, sad that adults seem not to have the imagination to take advantage of the weather.  Sad that time and seasons mean more to children.  I didn't go out or stamp or sled or be involved in a free four square like activity with some guy trying to avoid picking up the check for dinner.  So he'd rather go down a hill in a trash can top like he did when he was 5.  In the house with my hoarding tendencies and lack of sponges, I worked from home and was distracted by Mad Men.  The dishes in dual low towers in the sink, the border becomes square.  I am boxed in by the reflection of people addressing me as "ma'am" in my quilted Russian eskimo lady coat even if I don't radiate Chanel no 5.  Not entirely sure why I'm doing what I'm doing, the missed wake up and entry times.  The flubbed work times.  And around it the working dullness of having to be somewhere from 8:30.  I take the cloak of the working Joe even if I don't deserve it or fight for it.  I want another vision but don't know which one and know it involves a lack of heat, food, comfort that I like.  In selfies I glower with slits under my eyes, wall like and half closed, indentations that don't occur in anyone under 20.  Checking if I look as sad as I think.  I have the shyness and low self esteem of a 15 year old without a sense of preservation or any strategy to also look like one.  Things seem gray or limited or meaningless if you imagine they are.  The things I'm supposed to do I cling to with the only purpose being a fridge full of kale, a place to put my green pan.  The indignant faith that I'm allowed to be fancy free 5 years later than everyone else.  That I can eat cold cuts from napkins by Angkor Wat.  That I can converse with bright eyed artists in France.  Just because my parents can't push me into it.  I don't feel the way I'm reflected, like a "ma'am" nor like a working stiff.  And I can say for sure that gathering dust prematurely is a low level pain.  Feeling dull is low level frustration.  If I'm not suffering or living hand to mouth.  I am stopping before I try something related to whatever plan I don't have.  And this nothing will suck me in and provide a home if nothing else happens to me.  

I am you and dear you. At this point I am ready to leap into nothing it seems as long as I have the balls for it. What is my time for? 1 hour and 15 minutes lost in preparation of the morning. Preparation for the pain of problem solving that I feel like maybe is for nought. Today I lose an hour wandering after work. If the hours follow my passions they follow me the hungry anxious thing to pegu club. At night I have to get away toward the fashionably loud. The buttoned up lunch restaurants, lecherous bike messengers, north face dog walkers. All with its expiration time. We finish at 8. At 9 we hit the roof. I run toward my hairdresser the young creative Chris who doesn't talk unless prodded. Wide brick space where he knows how to work the head, my actual skull. As usual I'm hungry for the mood of maybe being top dog in this place, maybe finding an experience. He tells me he wanders the village till he heads back to the Bronx to his family where he has his privacy. He is careful and concentrated, pulls up a stool where he lines up my hair at the collarbone with a scissor. Like the rich old ladies and the long layers they ask for. I try not to judge the charcoal dry hair that refuses to be short out of his head. I need need to be around people who try for some artful reason even if they are fake. I mean what am I doing. My pet word is excellent. I am tipsy I am at pegu club and ray charles is excellent. The particular hipster bartenders talk the history of bourbons and scorsese. I wait for conversation because degustation is not satisfying alone. It is not satisfying alone or maybe satisfaction is not at all. Ray Charles voice the husky brick. The bartender moves with a quickness I can think of as virtuousity. He asks how's she treatin ya. She is frothy because of egg, tastes of mild earl grey and lemon like a delicate tea cake. And I wait for the side off duty bartenders to notice me. What am I doing . the daily question. He serves me a complex celery cilantro drink with a cover of sweetness that makes it taste less like a green juice. Ricky is 26. I am going to fall off the floor. She is lovely dude says the off duty bartender to the one manning the bar. About his wife whose birthday it is. Me. I am lovely too dude. Please. What am I doing. I'm drinking I'm eating I'm escaping I'm leaving the pain of rejection until rejection is the food experience. Tomorrow again I fight this program. I ask myself why I want to fly off and how I plan to do it. In new York this life this privileged thing where my ego will be no thing. Dude some girls are more willing to spread it to win. And feel pretty. Dude. Shanghai and oriental tang backlit red windows. They are for intimacy and the girl who talks to blond swede looks like krysten Ritter. Curved financial chairs. I am getting sad waiting for my chance to be pretty. Bartenders with their clear less masculine voices talk about drinks being more floral. He's the last one and I wait for him. Theyre talking about champers. The red lights but I am angled toward the light oak hunk of wooden bar and my drink with its strip of dried chili.