Carry a notebook wherever you go. It really will save you

It has been nonstop excitement since the start of summer, but I’m hoping for a subdued week so I’ll be ready for more fun on Friday. Guess what? My roommate and I are going to Boston next weekend. I’ll actually be there the following weekend as well to see my mom, sister, and grandmother, so I have a whole lot of traveling ahead of me, as I should.

But there are a lot of things I have to take care of before going away. On Tuesday, I’m visiting the physical therapist to see what’s going on with my neck. In case you’re unaware of the epitome of all white girl problems my epic sob story, I’ll enlighten you: A little more than a month ago, I got a deep tissue massage. I’d never been to a masseuse before, let alone a male one with strong hands, so I was quite sore afterward. Well, the pain still hasn’t gone away. I hurt every time I turn my head, and the strain has really begun to scare me. After I scheduled my appointment, however, I talked with my coworker’s fiance, who used to be a masseuse, about the mishap. She knew immediately that it was linked to my jaw problems, which I’ve had for many years. It was nice to get some clarity on the situation prior to seeing the doctor. It seems as if the massage dude just exacerbated my pre-existing issue. Don’t you love spending upwards of fifty dollars on a service that’s only going to make you feel like you’re 80 years old? Oy gevalt. This is not the life for me.

So, if you’re into that sort of thing, please send me your prayers on Tuesday. Well wishes work, too. Quite frankly it seems as if my health is ganging up on me right now and forcing me to slow down. You’d think I’d be happier in the warm weather, and though I love the sunshine, I’m scared I’m going to have to wear a neck brace or something to fix my 8-year-old jaw problem. Anatomy and bad genetics, you suck.

Okay, that was a much longer pity party than I intended to hold, so I apologize for the fear-mongering. But if you think my blog posts are terrifying, you should try living with me. My poor roommate Jen has spent the last week trying to calm me down and pull me out of this Hypochondriac phase. It’s a wonder she still wants to be my friend upon listening to everything that scares me. That’s true dedication.

Lately I’ve been feeling like we’re Chloe and June from “Don’t Trust the B—- in Apartment 23,” not because either of  us is the “b” word, but because our personalities are similar to the onscreen characters. Jen is a cosmopolitan adventurer like Chloe whereas I’m soft-spoken like June. I am really lucky to have her, I’d be ten times more neurotic otherwise.

The NYC Gay Pride parade was awesome this weekend, albeit much tamer than those of California. Lots of good energy and people in attendance:

And now, to address the title of this post: The craziest and angriest of NYC’s angry crazies shared a subway train with me on my way home from the festival. Soon after I snagged a seat on the uptown train, a crazy-eyed man began shouting down another fellow, who ran off to another traincar within minutes. That was when Angry Man started yelling at everyone in sight. He turned to the woman to my left, pointed at his bruised and wounded wrist, and said, “I tried to kill myself, you know. I stabbed myself with a knife and was bleeding all night, but I didn’t die. God must want me to live. But why won’t anyone give me a chance? No one understands my pain or cares about me!”

Then he looked at one woman and said, “You look like Whitney Houston, and her husband killed her! He got her addicted to drugs and she died. He’s still alive, though.” With that, she ran away, leaving him with me. I was busy working on an essay in my notebook, and that of course got his attention.

“Everyone f—ing hates me,” he yelled. “Like this blondie over here, she’s ignoring me. She’s writing. All she’s doing is writing.”

And I continued to do so until he chased some poor hipster photographer off the train. The pen really is mightier than the sword. It keeps nutcases from starting nonsense with me, and it has quite honestly kept me semi sane since age seven, when I first embraced the world of storytelling through pen and paper. I guess these days I have to work digitally, but I employ traditional supplies from time to time. Clearly, they serve a valuable purpose.

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