A little more elaboration than the previous post



I think it's hilarious that so many of us are at home on our computers on a Friday night. I remember when Friday nights always meant...a lot of things that are kind of foggy in remembrance, but I know for certain they definitely did not involve sitting at home typing on a computer. Definitely not.



I knew my hardcore party girl days were numbered when I began to long to be at home in bed with a book or a notebook rather than taking another shot at whatever bar or club or party I happened to be at just then. Although I haven't gone completely boring and do-nothing: I was, after all, at a bar just last night.

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Sometimes it happens just like in the movies.

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Post 256: In which our heroine catches her breathe



In the debate over whether Alicia Keys' single "No One" is awesome or annoying I was surprised to find myself squarely in the awesome camp while CV loudly pledged allegiance to the annoyed.


CV and I are starting to get a little pre-nostalgic about our friendship and how close we've gotten in the past two years. Every time we're together now inevitably at some point one of us will after, for example, a random reference to the scene in Footloose where Kevin Bacon's character plays tractor chicken for the first time (can't you just here "Holding Out For a Hero" when I mention it??) moan, "What am I going to do without you??"



But seriously...what are we going to do without each other?



In other news, Thanksgiving came and went without anything bad happening and not really any drama, so that was good. My term paper that almost gave me a panic attack was declared a smashing success by my professor, who thinks I should try and present it at an undergrad research conference in the spring. Less than 14 days until I am done with this semester. Life is pretty damn good.

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I hate lazy people. Also, I am a lazy person.



I hate lazy people. I especially hate lazy writers, because the trick to good writing, like good acting, is to get the most meticulous of inconsequential details correct. It offends me when a writer has so clearly not done his or her research, especially a journalist, a type of writer who's life should be slavishly devoted to rooting out the most minute minutiae and reporting it just so in plain fifth-grade English.



An article in today's NY Times set off this latest bought of hostility towards lazy writers. First off, the headline is "Greenwich Village With Peach Trees." Kill me now. No, really, kill me now. I can just see the desperate-to-be-considered hip Ruth La Ferla (let me take this moment to say I do not know Ruth La Ferla, so I'm just guessing here when I say she's desperate to be considered hip. But I'm probably guessing somewhere near the truth) sitting in some godawful coffee shop somewhere in front of her white Macbook trying to come up with something resembling an idea. "I know!" she says to herself. "I'll take two of the most tired cliches in the world about two places that have more than their fair share of tired cliches and make them the headline. Perfect!"



The rest of the article kept me at a somewhat simmering level of annoyance until I read this sentence and bubbled over completely: "The area, which radiates in several (though not actually five) directions from the intersection of Moreland and Euclid Avenues, languished in the ’70s as a refuge for slackers, students and punks."



There's a lot going on with this sentence that I have issues with, but the main issue is with Ms. La Ferla's patronizing aren't-I-so-clever-for-noticing attitude in pointing out that Little Five Points doesn't really have five little points. Well, Ms. La Ferla, if you'd bother to do any research or, I don 't know, ask anyone in the area, you might have discovered that once upon a time there were five points, but since intersections consisting of five points tend to be dangerous, the five points were rearranged slightly for safety's sake, with one being blocked off completely. Even the Five Points downtown (of Gone With the Wind fame) is no longer a proper five points of complete and total right-of-way confusion; it's radials' convergence was softened decades ago. You CAN still find a proper five-point intersection in Atlanta, but you have to drive back into the older neighborhoods to do so, and even these are something of a dying breed as they are quickly being converted into roundabouts.



So lazy, poor writing all around on Ms. La Ferla's part.



Although this is the point in the post where I must confess that I am something of a lazy writer myself, although in more of the literal sense. Instead of working on my term paper, which is due Monday, I have sufficiently busied myself in writing a blog post lambasting a person I've never met and probably never will meet.



Rock on.

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Fickle



I got my hair razor cut today by a brand-new hair girl, which is one of my greatest pleasures. And this chick! This chick was amazing with the straight razor. I felt completely safe as she pulled the skin back on my neck to run the blade as close as possible without drawing blood. I adore stylists who've trained in traditional barbershop methods. They know what's up with short hair.



The only reason I ended up seeing this new girl is because my old hair girl got into a bad accident and can't cut hair right now. I'd tried to reform my ways as a hair slut for her, but I have to admit I got a little thrill when I found out I'd have to try someone new at the salon. (Of course I wasn't happy to hear my old hair girl had been in an accident, but thankfully she's going to be ok.) After a few cuts with one stylist I feel I've exhausted their ingenuity and creativity in regards to my hair and am ready to move on to someone new. And yes, this is probably quite indicative of my fickle nature in general.



The crush on the hottie at work is also dampening down to a very small ember indeed. He's still a hottie, but all the things that irritate me are starting to come out. Plus, I turned in my resignation letter today, so I'm really beginning to check out from work and Atlanta and starting to get super excited about DC. I'll be able to walk to everywhere for my day-to-day school and internship and grocery shopping stuff, which makes me soooo happy you have no idea. (I love walking, in case you haven't been paying attention for the past year.) Plus, I will have one afternoon a week to do with as I please. I'm thinking lots of museums for the first couple of months, and then as the weather warms up lots of time outside canoodling with the hot new boyfriend I have yet to meet. Perfect.

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Save the date



Friday, December 14, 2007. I finally get a party in my honor at 810a San Antonio.



Be there.

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Angry and armed with a pencil



Sometime around midnight, I stumbled over to the couch, looked down at him, and said, "Give me a cigarette."



He stared back at me, and I realized this was our first conversation in more than two years.



"Would you deny me a cigarette?" I asked.



"I wouldn't deny you anything," he said.



Later, around three a.m., as I stared across the table at the Romanian, I realized the absolute improbability of the whole situation. Who would have thought my whole life was leading up to this moment, here, in this place, with these people? I never would have believed it myself, if it hadn't happened to be happening right then. The whole of Friday night was like a strangely scripted dream involving jukeboxes and vodka tonics and a Frenchman named for Lyndon B. Johnson. The next morning, when CV and I awoke, we could hardly believe there were pencil scribbles on the walls, like an angry three-year-old had been at the party the night before, angry because we were distracted by grown-up things, angry because we hadn't given him the proper attention. Angry, and armed with a pencil.

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