Sorry for being a deadbeat blogger

One of the most important unspoken rules in the blogosphere is to push out daily posts. As noted by, writing for the Internet will break your heart because no one reads your work. Consistency helps, but until you develop a strong following, it’s crucial to produce constantly and keep your audience entertained.

At the moment, I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life: I’m about to move to my dream city to take an incredible job and attempt to pick up on the style of chic New Yorkers in the process, but because I’ve been showered with praise and good wishes the past few weeks, I’ve neglected this blog, which doesn’t have the luxury of stagnation.

So, I apologize for the lack of blog posts. I’ve been busy shipping my belongings away to California and New York, terminating my D.C. area lease, and dealing with all the yucky paperwork that comes with unexpected change. On top of everything, my poor roommate Monique is going to have to move back home for a while, so I’m not stoked about being the catalyst for that. As I’ve said before: This is the most insane thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I’m actually kind of excited to couch hop for the next couple of weeks until Hillary and Emily are ready to relocate from Brooklyn to Manhattan (I’m making the move with them and staying at their Brooklyn residence until we find a new home).

The uncertainty is frightening but thrilling. My half-sister Megan’s NYC relatives called me up yesterday and begged me not to worry, so I’ll work on cutting down on the panic sessions. Don’t laugh, but I’m going to be really lame and compare myself to Carrie Bradshaw circa 1980. Whilst in Italy this July, I sat down and read, “The Carrie Diaries”, Candace Bushnell’s prequel to “Sex and the City”. I had the opportunity to interview Ms. Bushnell earlier this summer and she recommended I check out her new book, so I decided to check it out during my week-long Europe vacation. Throughout the book, 17-year-old Carrie from Connecticut longs to live in New York City but doesn’t have the support of her father to do so. At the end of the novel, she scraps her plans to attend Brown University and purchases an Amtrak ticket to NYC. With two giant suitcases, she boards the train to Penn Station, where she gets mugged. This sort of thing is not unusual in New York City, but her fictional character goes on to do great things as a result of her spontaneous move.

Last night, I went with my buddy Lisa to see “50/50”, which I criticized several weeks ago for making cancer seem like a funny misfortune. As some pointed out, I shouldn’t have been so harsh with the film before viewing it.

Based on a true story, the movie follows Adam, a 27-year-old radio employee who likes to play it safe. Adam’s flakey painter girlfriend walks all over him and takes advantage of his good nature, and his co-worker Kyle means well but seems incapable of caring about anything meaningful. Adam, who was too afraid of cars to get a driver’s license, discovers his aching back pain is caused by a spinal tumor. He has a 50/50 percent chance of survival but tries not to focus on the negative. Of course, everyone around him — his mother, friend Kyle, girlfriend, and novice therapist — want him to “freak out” and express emotion. It takes a while for him to lose control, but he doesn’t get worked up over his illness. He’s upset he led a low-risk life.

“50/50” is pretty short, but who wants to watch a twenty-something deteriorate on-screen for more than an hour and a half? The story, which was inspired by screenwriter Will Reiser’s life and recovery, has a happy ending but doesn’t speak true for everyone with cancer.

Almost every time I go to U Street, I have an unwanted encounter with creepy strangers. Three months ago, I attempted to maneuver around a pack of high school males on the sidewalk only to be swarmed by the teenage boys. One of the guys pretended to punch and slap me. The others laughed and took turns feigning physical assault. I tried to scramble out of their circle, and thankfully one of the guys pulled me away from his buddies and said, “you’re okay, you’re okay.” He went on to scream at them for making light of violence against women, but I was shaken up from the bizarre, almost altercation.

I’d long since forgotten about the weird event until last night, when my friend Lisa and I wound up on a sketchy street in Columbia Heights. On our stroll to the bar to meet our buddy Joey, we caught the attention of six tall guys who decided to mess with us.

“Hey girls, do you have boyfriends?” One of them shouted from behind.

We quickened our pace and ignored the boys, but before we knew it they got in our faces.

“We asked you a question. Do you have boyfriends?” they asked.

I made the mistake of opening my mouth.

“No, we’re lesbians,” I said, taking Lisa’s hand.

“Even better!”

They wouldn’t go away, so we ran into the road to hail a cab. Moments later, something whacked me in the back. I turned around and saw one of the men had a pile of rocks in his hand. He took a final throw but missed me. The malicious, violent look in his eye was the scariest part of the incident. It’s almost as if he took pleasure in hurting women and used our rejection as an excuse to lash out against the female gender. Thankfully, they fled the scene, but I was left with haunting memories of an eighth grade trip to Great America theme park, where something similar happened to me. I’ve heard the catcalling is even worse in New York, so I may have to invest in some pepper spray for late night walks home.

In the mean time, I’ll watch out for men in groups. They act out to impress their friends and conform to groupthink. I don’t want to be subjected to violence, abuse, or harassment simply because they want to look cool in front of each other.


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