SELFABSORBED.ME

2am and I stand in the back of some guy’s apartment surrounded by drunk girls playing beer pong on a half rotting wooden table. I have a warm beer in one hand a half lit cigarette in the other. One girl in shorts smaller then underwear passes by me, spilling her Corona on my shoes, “chusse know someshum here?” she asks, leaning against me.

I nod my head. I did actually. The owner of the place. And when I round the corner to the bedroom, there he is, encircled in a cloud of smoke, and I could barely open the door when I noticed some guy behind blocking it. He looks through the opening at me.

“Password?” He says.

“Jeff don’t be an asshole”. I say, and push my way inside. But being inside was like pushing through another door because I couldn’t see beyond my fingertips. Cody Chesnut and the Roots 3.0 are blasting in the background and I search around to see Chris’ face. And then suddenly it was like he was on top of me.

“Kim!” Chris says. An odd element of surprise in his voice. “You enjoying the party?”

“Of course she is!” Jeff chimes in. “Look at her! But no Baby look at ME…did you see my t-shirt babe it has an Olson twin on it...” Chris eye’s Jeff as he starts to giggle like a little girl.

I just smile and move over closer to the bed. But the more I breath in the more confused I get as to where I am going.. or who I am here to see again ..and more convinced that I need a burrito than anything else.

“Kim did you bring this dog here?” Someone says from outside the room, carrying in the tiny Yorkie.

“Yeah, but I am just puppy sitting, it’s not actually mine.”

“Well I think the dog is high…just look at him, eating all the pretzels off the floor.”

“Ah, well I am pretty sure he would do that regardless….but fuck, I don’t know if a dog can get high but more importantly how am I supposed to get him home?”

“How did you get him here anyway…in the puppy express van?”

“No, I snuck him onto the bus.”

“Well then you can sneak him back on.”

The dog just looks back at me. His small hair matted in the front from beer spillage and his tiny paws covered in cigarette ash. He apparently didn’t know he was going to be partying this weekend.

I pick up the small dog and put him in my arms. Step outside the smoky room and into the hallway. I make my way up the backstairs to the roof. As I open the door, the shot of cold air, taking away my breath for a second. And I step out onto the patio, letting the wind break against my cheek. The dog hovers into the side of my sweater, until his face if fully covered by purple wool. The city lights are high in the sky and I carefully move each heel beneath the platform so as not to drop myself and pup off the ledge.

And we just sit there. On a broken patio chair. Me and the Yorkie. Looking out over the skyline. I take another drag from my cigarette.

Sometimes we are supposed to be grownups in our 20’s. And sometimes we can barely take care of someone else’s dog for 2 days. I keep staring at the Yorkie, making sure he is breathing. “Just keep him alive for 1 more day.” I think. I feel the tiny mouse of a dog shivering into the armpit of my sweater.

And I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of people my age having children.

And I can't think about being married, or having a mortgage, or even paying my credit cards off in full.

And I can’t even end relationships peacefully and maturely.

And one day I will learn to stop crank calling the pizza delivery guy and asking him to send ten Large Pepperonis to 69 Yourmama Street.

One day. But not tonight.

An Open Letter to the Dude Who Yelled at the Old Lady in Rite Aid:

Dear Dude,

I could see it coming from a mile away. As I stood there, foot cream and Tampax in hand, you raced your way in front of me just to make sure you were in line to purchase your full-calorie grape soda (people still buy that shit?) and Hallmark card. There was an old lady who happened to wander over your way and suddenly it was like watching Britney at the VMAs, where you just kept hoping some serious shit was about to go down, drugs or no drugs...Federline or no Federline, white trash was about to rear its ugly head.

And she just sort of wobbled over with her brown cane and took her spot, conveniently right in front of you with her thick plastic wedge shoes. And I stood there, tapping the Tampax box against my right leg, wishing I had popcorn and fucking 3D glasses for this show. You began yelling at the 107 year old woman, that she was "cutting the line", while she tried to comprehend your screaming and spitting. The old lady probably was having fucking flashbacks to the Civil War.... as you berated her in front of four other drug store attendees.

Now granted, you did have a point, as she cut about five waiting people, but you know what, for all we know this may be her last drug store visit…ever…so why can't she go pay for her FiberOne ten minutes before the rest of us? She is about to meet Jesus in eleven minutes! And I need all the good-press I can get!

What is your hurry to pay for you items for anyway? Is there some big Grape Soda Convention you are rushing off to?

And even better was when she started to argue back with you, mentioning something about being in line first, you kept yelling at her to get to the end of the line. Wow, I have never met such a chivalrous man such as yourself. How the women behind me didn’t faint upon the briskness of your voice is beyond me. All I could think looking at your left hand was…single?! Sweet Pumpernickel and Rye that just CAN’T BE! A man of your strength? It takes a lot to yell at a 4 ft 2 woman in brown shoes, but round of applause you did it man.

Dear Upstairs Neighbor;

I get it.
You have sex.
My understanding of your sex life is actually far more comprehensive then my understanding of my own sex life. Every night I wake up to the sound of your headboard slamming against the beams above my wall. Your sex is timely as well, always around 2am on the dot. Is it scheduled in your Blackberry? Normally I am right in the middle of my usual 2am dream which consists of Arctic Penguins and a bunch of British people in a pool. Regardless, you do have a consist rhythm which is, thankfully for me, only about eight pumps long, and then it is over. You also like to have sex at 7am, which has actually become a better tool for waking me up in the morning then my actual alarm now. But last Sunday, on the DAY OF JESUS MAY I REMIND YOU, at 2pm when I was trying to watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, your bed was hitting the wall harder than a coke-heads jaw. I was sitting there thinking, OK, enough, I get it. I mean, for the love of Jesus, you must have sex what 14? Maybe even 18 times a week? 18 times A WEEK? I think 18 times would be a good YEAR for me. I was tempted that bright sunny Sunday afternoon to walk upstairs and bang on your door screaming, “I GET IT! YOU HAVE SEX! I GET IT, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST ALMIGHTY, LET THE WALL REST, THE WALL IS HURTING! THE BEAMS NEED A DAY OFF!” How much sex do you need to be having? I suggest one time a year. How about that? How about you read some books? Or invest in a hobby, such as darts, or chess? I also have some face masks and old teeth retainers that, when worn, I have found as a very preventative tool for ever having any sex ever again. Maybe you need a good show to watch at night? May I suggest CSI Miami? TLC’s A Baby Story? Or even ESPN’s How to Catch a Fish? And as much as I loved hearing your eight pumps in all their glory this morning, I have to say, I could do without. So please dear Neighbor, appease me and next time you feel like causing all the beams in my ceiling to shake and crack, remember that picking up a methamphetamine habit would be much more considerate.
Thank you,

Your Neighbor Below,

NYC Ponderings