At 14th Street, a man tried to sell me “tooies” (Tuinals), and at the West 4th station, a Jamaican man came up to me and said, “Read this book: it’s beautiful,” handing me Steps to Jesus. I got on a lively D train with some young people on it, and it was nice until an old man who smelled of urine sat down next to me.
If there is magic in the world, I think it comes in the moments exactly like this one.
“Midnight comes, and she drunkenly pukes on my shoulder, and it runs down my shirt. I then tried not to get sick on her. I failed.”
Must we do this awkward midnight kiss thing every year?
Forget the obligatory, boring boyfriend New Year’s kiss.
It’s the little resolutions you make each and every day that truly count.
We all have that one conceited friend who cares more about the pregame pictures and Valencia-filtered Instagrams of the club than actually having a good time.
“I will stop stressing about the little things, and just enjoy life.”
Santa’s Workshop in Canarsie was beautiful at night. It was amazing to watch, like a wonderland, and suddenly Wayne pointed out that the rain had turned to snow. It was a white Christmas after all.
It was the first White Christmas in quite a few years. Libby, Avis and I went outside and had a snowball fight and wrote with our fingers on cars and walked around Park Slope as the flakes fell.