This cough is killing me. I feel like the old man in Le Quattro Volte, whom you couldn't help wishing would just hurry up and die, not least so you wouldn't have to listen to it anymore. It strikes at the most inopportune moments; in the middle of conversations with old or particularly clean looking people, when my mouth is full of food, or when Vincent and I are almost asleep. And even when it's not causing my body to convulse, I can still taste phlegm. (I should confess I don't completely hate the taste. I know that's gross. I just don't mind bodily functions.)
Combined with being pre-menstrual and having put on a very unwelcome 1.6 kilograms, the cough has me feeling very crabby and very frumpy. Even the good feeling from the hour of grooming I put myself through after work was undone with the donning of flannel pajama pants. I feel ridiculous, and hateful, and in limbo. I even had to turn off Gilmore Girls because they were pissing me off.
What do you do when your usual pick ups don't work? When you can't drink, it's not time to sleep, you have no money to spend, TV is annoying, and you can't concentrate enough to read so you can't escape yourself? You try to distract yourself. I intend to do so by showing you things I wish for. (Not world peace things - selfish things. I'm crabby.)
Brooklyn, New York. Next month two of our friends are going to New York, and I am very excited for them, and determined that sometime soon, Vincent and I will have our turn. I have wanted to go to New york since I was about twelve (actually probably since I was eight, when Home Alone 2 came out, but anywhere they'd chosen for that film would have been on my list). There's something so magical and intriguing about it; I feel like it's a place where things happen (if only because I believe that). And Brooklyn looks like the part of New York for me; a bit more run-down, a bit more historic, and a bit more real. We hope, hope, hope we can go at the end of next year.
My life-long fashion quest is to find the right pair of leather pants and the perfect fur jacket. I know it's terrible. I know if I'm who I think I am, then fur is not for me. But then I see the fur section in a secondhand store and something happens to me, and I'm running my hands over them and trying them on and feeling like the fast woman I always wanted to be. It's a poor argument, but if I'm wearing a vintage fur, aren't I making the animal's sacrifice even more worthwhile? Maybe not. But I can't help it. I love fur coats, and one day I will have the perfect one, and it will be wonderful.
Bob Dylan was a disappointment, but I still had to see him. I had to. And I don't regret it, even if I regret his performance. I know Bowie wouldn't let me down. One day, if I have my way, I will see him in concert, and I won't be disappointed.
I really, really hope I get to go to Brooklyn, find my fur jacket (and my leather pants - in my mind they're also magically bum-minimising), and see Ziggy Stardust himself. But what I want more than any of those things is for this person to never ever be more than a few minutes from me. Right now he's only a few metres away. You know what? I feel heaps better. Happy Friday, every one.
Images from planetware.com, humanitiesweb.org, livemusicguide.com.