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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Monday, February 21, 2005

Not a Pity Post

So how is it that people in the adult world make friends? Working freelance is awesome in that you can A) work in the nude, you know, if you wanted and B) get up no earlier than 2PM. Working freelance sucks in that you have no A) health insurance and B) no reason to ever leave the house ever, oh dear god, you may never leave the house and see another person again.

Today is February 21st. I haven't talked to a single person outside of the boyfriend and my French tutor (who I pay to talk to) since February 11th. Today I saw a guy on the subway, looking smooth, wearing the t-shirt of a band I really like, reading a book I really like, in English, and just generally looking awesome and I thought "that guy’s really, really smolderingly hot we could be friends." But you can't just go up to somebody and say, "Hey, I haven't talked to a single person in 10 days. Do you want to just hang out in a jazz bar? Or watch horror movies all night long and laugh at how shitty the special effects are? Because, seriously, I'm awesome. I mean...I...uh...quote The Simpsons and Wet Hot American Summer a lot...I own a candle that looks uncannily like a skull...all I really want in life is to wear an 80's flame helmet while riding something that looks like ExciteBike while rockin out to White Snake...and I'm charming too...yeah...I could charm the fuck out of you...[get crazy eyes and nod maniacally here while pointing your finger directly at the person. People love that]...think about it, Mr. Trachtenberg Family Slideshow Players fan...think about what you're missing."

You can't just say creepy stuff like that to other people, no matter how much your skull candle may make you feel like one of the Hell's Angels. Really, once you get up to, "I haven't talked to anyone else in ten days," people begin to wonder if you were either institutionalized or a prisoner of war.

So the hunt for people-in-Paris-who-are-neither-dicks-nor-pity-friends continues. In other news, the boyfriend talked to Kirsten Dunst a few days ago. I guess this is karma biting me in the ass for telling the building super he was a crossdresser.

R.I.P Hunter S. Thompson

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