because it came on my ipod this morning and I was feeling existential.

I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song
I’m twenty-two now but I won’t be for long
Time hurries on
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand
–Simon and Garfunkel, “Leaves that are green”

You should have seen me on the eve of my 20th birthday. “I’m closer to 40 than to the day I was born.” I couldn’t get it out of my head. I was leaving teenager-dom, and I was sure I hadn’t done everything I’d planned. This isn’t one of those times I realize I was wrong. I was completely right, and while I choose not to regret those years, I’ll defer to Lucas from Empire Records when he says ‘I do not regret the things I’ve done but those I did not do.’ If I died today, that would be my epitaph. But I don’t want to live regretting the experiences I missed out on.

And now I’m about to make a (hopefully) graceful exit from what was ’supposed’ to be the greatest year of my life. My golden, perfect year. The thing I hate about time is that you can never get it back. It passes and then it’s done and you can’t stop it. I think I live in fear of that inevitability. It’s not that I want to go back. I just want to hit pause. I want to pause time right now, in this last month of my twenty-second year, to give me a chance to catch up on life.

That’s what I want for my birthday, to put time on pause. That, and a puffy coat, because NY winters are freezing.

Protected: I’m not really this boring.

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on not being cool enough

Ahh, monday. It has very few redeeming qualities, one of which being the New York Magazine waiting for me in my mailbox when I get home. (Another is a new episode of The Hills.)

I love the approval matrix, the movie reviews, the crossword (oh how it vexes me). I love the real estate page, where I routinely learn that for the same price as a two bedroom in Manhattan, I could buy Vermont. But lately, I can’t help reading the features about quirky New Yorkers and feeling a little less than worthy. Why haven’t I translated my talent I didn’t know I had into semi-fame and fortune like those Misshapes kids? Why haven’t I parlayed my unique brand of crazy into a semi-successful career as an artist and eccentric? (sarcasm)

Despite living a very un-New York Magazine feature story kind of life, I guess I make do. But seriously, can we move on? All this ‘cool’ is getting to be a bit much.

Stream of consciousness: Late night walk home edition

Good, he’s turning. I don’t want to make awkward small talk for the next few blocks. My feet hurt, I shouldn’t have worn these shoes. You can’t even see them under my jeans anyway. It’s hot. Why can’t my phone make sad faces in text? I feel like I’ve seen commercials with sad faces in a text message. Oh well, send. Maybe I should have added ‘haha’ to that. Maybe he’ll think I’m being serious. He probably won’t even write back. I should just put my phone away. Wait, I’ll keep holding my phone, it’s safer. Why is GAP open so late? Who’s shopping at the GAP this late on a Saturday night? Why do they turn the lights off over the produce in the 24 hour supermarket? Why do people eat beef jerky late at night? You never see people walking around with a bag of beef jerky during the day. Ow. Stupid shoes. Stupid feet. Stop looking at my chest creepy man. I shouldn’t have worn this low cut shirt. Now I’m walking home alone with the girls exposed. Why does my right foot hurt more? Is it the bigger one? Don’tturnreddon’tturnred. Good. Why do people feel the need to turn when I’m still walking across the street? Are they in that big of a hurry? It’s illegal. I don’t need some SUV on my heels, I already feel like I’m mincing in these shoes. Mincing. He was wrong, we don’t make mince meat pies in the US, and we certainly don’t make them out of deer. What is mincemeat, anyway? Ow. Almost there. One more block. Safety. Or not. If this were an SVU episode, this is the block I’d get raped and murdered on. Olivia would say ‘She was almost home…’ and Stable would bite his lip and turn away, hands on hips. I shouldn’t have worn this low cut shirt. I should have at least brought a sweater. But then I’d be sweating. Would that make me more or less of a rape target? Then they’d probably describe my corpse as sweaty. Would I still be sweaty when they found me? Who would find me? I hope not a dog. I really don’t need a dog slobbering over my dead body. That was morbid. Ok, I’m in the courtyard. If anything happens now, I’m in the safety of my building, and wouldn’t people look out if they heard screaming? Probably not. Oh thank goodness it’s cooler in here. I could probably take my shoes off in the lobby, no, only two flights. Why is it dark  in here? I thought I left the lights on. Ohhhh New Roommate came home, that’s right. Sweet relief. Those shoes are cute though. I have to pee. I’m so thirsty. Why is my door closed? Oh good, I left the air on.

What’s new with me

- New Roommate is moved in and settled, and perfectly lovely.
- Coco is lying in the animal hospital, where she’s been for a week. She is most likely dying. And it’s very upsetting.
- Went home for long weekend, loved every minute of it, with the exception of the enforced sibling time.
- Desperately need a haircut…thinking of taking the sweepy bangs risk.
- Still have no idea what to do with my life.

What’s new with you?