Boston, Dear Diary

On Seeing and Believing

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I was walking in a strange neighborhood the other night, trying to find my way back to the subway, when I decided that the restaurant five doors down was stupid. They had two neon green signs, placed right on top of each other: the text wasn’t even readable. “Who designed that one,” I wondered.

I stopped then, staring at those signs. It occurred to me that there was, in fact, only one, perfectly legible sign. I just couldn’t detect it. No amount of blinking or eye rubbing could reconcile perception with the more likely reality.

This blew my mind. I wanted to stop strangers on the street, it seemed goddamn near miraculous. “You see that sign? I see two of them! Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard? . . . No? Do you think that maybe, in some alternate universe, there are actually two signs? Because that’s kind of what I think.”

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Dear Diary

Possessed

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For much of my life, I have loved to lie on my bed and just stare at my freaking beautiful, glorious bookshelf. Occasionally I’ll think about what it’d be like to come home with myself on a date for the first time — the joy it would be to roll over in the morning, to see all of those amazing titles in this new partner’s possession. The Fact of a Doorframe. Nazim Hikmet, Kepler’s Witch. “You like Grace Paley?” I would gasp gushily. “You keep The Voyage of the Beagle next to your bed?”

I think I would fall in love with myself, right there.*

*Assuming, of course, that I was not completely weirded out by anything in that “self-help and sexuality” section.

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Anxiety, Dear Diary

Paging Doctor Web, Part Two

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Hilariously — I discovered some time ago — I had developed a severe allergy to band-aids. Specifically the adhesive: medical tape was out, waterproof, sensitive skin, Snoopy decals. I’d wear one for an hour and sport the telltale parallel welts for weeks, waiting impatiently for the sweet fade into a less violent, more subtle chemical burn. This problem has proved to be more inconvenient than you’d think. Holding gauze against one’s skin for a couple of hours, while usually hilariously doable, isn’t always an option.

“Doctor,” I said, “I think I have ringworm.”

“Indeed you do!” he cried. “Sweet Lord!”

“Oh, oh oh oh wait,” I added. “See, I didn’t want my boyfriend to catch it while we slept, so I covered all of the rashes with band-aids — only I’m allergic to band-aids, which I knew, only as I’ve gotten older the allergy has gotten worse I guess, so I’m hideous. Just ignore that, that and that, and this over here, and also that. The things we do for love, right?”

He stared at me in disbelief. “Ringworm isn’t communicable.”

“What!” I cried. “That’s not what the internet said.”

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Dear Diary

We Were Rooting For You

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We sat on chairs, couches, pillows, floors, we stood in lines against the stair railing — we watched CNN, NBC, and even Fox to see what they were saying about you. And, apropos for our generation, we happened to be watching The Daily Show when your projected victory was officially announced.

It’s odd, getting news like that on Comedy Central. For what seemed like ages, we just stared at the graphic they’d thrown onto our screen. “Wait, seriously?” someone said.

Then, as if one cue, the whole room erupted in screams, applause, and hollers. We awaited your speech. (Full album.)

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Boston, Costa Rica, Dear Diary

Email to Dennis, Upon Our Return

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Greetings from … well, I wish I could still say Costa Rica, but last night we returned, significantly browner and peelier than a week before.

As a result of that trip, I am now a little bit more fond of monkeys, a little less fond of cats — which were feral and whining about it everywhere — and much more fond of paved, straight roads, which were stomach-lurchingly absent in our area. Also, I want a pony. (Whenever we wanted to go somewhere, we drove on dirt roads through green hills dappled with white oxen, grey-spotted horses and unicorns, apparently. It was always sunset, and there were always mountains in the background. I began to harbor fantasies of owning a ranch. It would have an wooden gate painted bright orange, and every morning I would enjoy a breakfast of Cream of Wheat with black coffee.)

(Step one: stop hating Cream of Wheat.)

(Step two: stop hating coffee black.)

How’s springtime in Kansas City? It’s kind of nice to be back home in Boston, even if it is a bit chilly and forecasted to rain for the next week. I like to think that I attained a level of zen in Costa Rica, because when a car tried to plow through me this morning in the middle of a crosswalk with a walk signal, my inclination to give him the middle finger was almost cavalier, dispassionate, like a friendly tip o’ the hat to his douchebaggery.

Sometimes I worry that I’ll become too accustomed to this city.

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