this is what happens at 2:00am when your best friend decides you need to pretend you are an artist (you’re not), slaps a 90”x 70” canvas to her wall, hands you 20 cans of paint, and says “go.”

there are few things i wouldn’t do for my friends.

there is almost nothing i wouldn’t do for jordan.

friends since we were fourteen, she taught me the meaning and importance of road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.

[do this. it’s amazing. just bring some red bull.]

she tells me like it is and accepts it when i do the same.

she’s abundantly funny.

and makes me asks me tells me is my wingman to do some crazy shit.

[like road-tripping to new orleans in the middle of the night on a total whim.]

so it was only appropriate when, at 2am a few nights ago and in the throws of trying to redecorate her west village apartment for the NINE THOUSANDTH TIME, that she would ask me to paint her some art.

[you mean me? as i survey her otherwise empty apartment, hoping someone else is standing in the middle of the room. wearing a smock.]

and only appropriate that i would so quickly oblige.

[sure. it’s only 2am. this will undoubtedly be incredible. just don’t hold your breath.]

and so, it began. what began? i wouldn’t actually know until it was sun-up 7am and i could barely see straight and had already made a 5:12am run to the bodega across the street for a 6-pack. don’t judge. and by god if you ask me to do something with so much lunacy behind it as paint you a massive mural at 2am, you can bet your sweet ass i will make a run for a 6-pack at some point. if you want a beer too, get your own.]

oh. so you really weren’t kidding about this project. fantastic. i’m only 3 seconds away from passing out, but BRING IT. MEASURE THAT SHIT, HOMIE.

okay, hang on. this thing is a beast. and you want me to do WHAT with it exactly?

because it’s now about 3:47am, you batshitcrazy perfectionist.

i’m really tired. can i please stop soon? like six hours ago soon?? like how did you rope me into this soon? oh yeah, and now it’s my birthday (for reals) and i’m going to be a zombie all day. thanks. let’s do this again sometime never.

aaaaannnndddd now it’s seven o’clock in the morning. i’m done. i hope you love it. (she does.) and i hope you don’t put it on the curb like you did those bedside tables you made me spend 49 hours in ikea mulling over.

and i want to go home.

i NEED to go home.

I’M. GOING. HOME.

except that i’m not.

because now you want me to overanalyze some army green metal desk that you think is going to change your life.

well, here’s my 2 cents.

i hate the fucking desk.

it belongs in an insane asylum.

and right now, so do i.

an irishman tends bar in a mexican restaurant in little italy.

and that is why i love new york.

mexican radio is likely one of my favorite places in this town and i'm not even sure why except that i've never been able to spend fewer than 8 hours there, or had fewer than 39 margaritas, and certainly never had fewer than way too many inappropriate conversations while positioned tummy-facing-mahogany.

i'm assuming it's mahogany.

then again, i couldn't care less. at all. margaritas will do that.

atop a stool, and power driving green mac n' cheese [why was it green again? is this a mexican thing i'm apparently super virgin to? because holy hot damn, that shit was food on crack-infused steroids.], i tried so eloquently to describe the love affair i have with the eastern shore of maryland and why i think certain male and female "landscaping" options border on just plain silly.

[i may or may not elaborate on that at a later date. i probably won't, but if i do then rest assured it will be detailed and educational.]

17 of 39 margaritas later, this bit of information fell into my lap:

"marcy, the reason people fall in love with you is because you say weird stuff like 'i grew up like a pirate.'"

huh.

um, thank you?

and.

um, what?!

this should be titled: why brunettes have more fun and kick more ass. but i’m actually going to title it: top 2 reasons not to leave your iPhone in the port authority bathroom stall.

this was apparently  t h e  w e e k  for stealing phones.

it’s like the assholes of the world all got together and said “go, team, go.”

and then i said:

“hey, assholes. hows about you go get yourselves some JOBS and buy your own overpriced handheld device.”

here are the reasons why the above situation blows.

[apart from everything.]

1.) you don’t got a phone no more.

2.) you gots to buy a new one.

[secretly i was just searching for an excuse to drop a quick four-hundred bucks on something i’ve already bought. twice.]

 

and then i saw this and everything was instantly better.

 omfg.

to all past, present, and future love interests of my life:

if you buy me this, i’ll shoot you in the face.

me thinks today would be a stellar day to play a round of hookie and go to the beach.

me also thinks this is just not going to happen.

there are people to meet.

a person to greet.

and a one o’clock meeting in midtown that’s going to throw that daydream believing situation into an overdriven level of impossibility.

[monday, you are awesome.]

only one of these things interests me in the slightest. allow me to bust this secret wide open and let you know that it’s not the meeting in midtown.

 

in completely unrelated news . . .

[which isn’t news at all.]

here’s something to either make or break your monday.

and you’re welcome.

i can’t for the life of me remember how or where i acquired this piece of photographic wonderment, but i do remember posting it on facebook (because why the hell not) and having someone ask me if i was related to these people.

bitch please.

[although for half a heartbeat, i won’t argue that i sort of wish i was. because this looks like a real good time.]

i’m not sure which part i like better:

the american flag wall art, the old lady vomiting into a plastic trash can while also palming a can of what looks to be coors light (boot-n-rally, granny . . . boot-n-fuckin’-rally), or the fact that the dude with the sweetass haircut is tripping his balls off on booze.

or meth.

or both.

and i’m not even going to mention the orange polyester.

except that i am.

ORANGE POLYESTER (!!!)

okay that’s all.

bye.

salt water collides with salty tears and then wipes them dry. or maybe then they just become one. and then you are the ocean.

if i could be a fish, i would be.

a while ago, one of my favorite people [who is currently a wee bit farther away than i’d like …. and without phone or internet, which i like even less …. especially now …. COME BACK …. okay. a few more days …. i can deal ….. ] told me:

“i thought you’d moved.”

i asked why.

[because i hadn’t moved. at all.]

response:

“because you’re always on a beach somewhere.”

and it’s true.

sort of.

well, not really.

i mean at least during the summer months, i spend as much time at the beach as humanly and as inhumanly possible.

if i can be on a beach . . . i can be happy.

[well, really, i can actually be happy anywhere. the beach just amps this up a few.]

so some time spent amidst the salty seas and currents that ran so furiously that we had to abort our initial planned mission and settle for the “megadock” [mega could be a new favorite word. use it in a sentence. twice. and then tell me you don’t feel empowered.] and i found a little restoration.

except for the fact that i slept zero. which is weird, but not. and it reshaped the meaning of “vacay” into something more like “fake it ‘til you make it.”

faking it.

making it.

what else would you like to know?

i’m on a boat. drinking beer. reading a shitty magazine.

i dare you to tell me you’re having a better day than me.

a very short letter to an inanimate entity that may or may not be reading. [file this under: if you put it out there, it just might become truth.]

 

dear east harlem,

please be nice to me.

yours*,

marcy.

 

[*and by “yours” i do not mean you own me. i do that part. you’re just along for the ride. let’s get that clear from the get go. k? k.]