Stop Asking.

Sometimes I wonder where my innocence went.
Not like that, you turds, get your head out of the gutter.

Sometimes I wonder where my youth went.
No.

Sometimes I wonder where my spontaneity went.
Why is it being suppressed?  Why am I letting it be suppressed.
Are women still suffrage-ing?

Sometimes I wonder if Donna Mills could come over and do my makeup.
Sometimes I step into the daylight wondering if she already somehow did.

Oh Donna.

Wait!  I've got it!
Sometimes I wonder when I lost that little spark of naivety.
The lush, green, reckless abandon that brought forth such unintentional BALLS!
Ahhhh, yes my big ol' unaware gonads.

I got off of the train today and walked up the steps of the A train onto Eight Avenue.
I can remember feeling like, "I'm in fucking New York City, bitch."
Now I think, "I'm in fucking New York City? bitch!"
Other times I think, "I'm in!  Fucking! New York City, Bitch!"
Okay, that last one was a stretch...but you see the emotional sliding scale that comes with living here.

I just recall in the days of yonder...
waking up and getting lost on my way to temp somewhere in lower manhattan.
I was always a little bit inappropriately dressed.
But looking prehhhhhhhhhtty cute.
Then I would go out for drinks, and get drunk, and dance, and my feet would hurt.
Because my shoes were also inappropriate for living in "fucking New York City, bitch!"

I saved up for LaDuca heels and Katrinawear unitards.
I frequented the performing Arts Library at Lincoln Center.
I dreamed of being able to afford an apartment in Midtown.
And I kept training to be better so that one day I could be on The B'way.
Did I ever really believe it.  That that is what "it" was? That I could attain, "it?"
I have a hard time believing.
But I had fun.

I miss fun.
Where is the fun?
I have to find the fun!
Again.
I will.

I never realized at 23,24,25 that life was at it's peak of "easiness."
I didn't have to worry about if and when to have babies.
Being an indentured servant didn't bother me it was just a day job.
It didn't occur to me that I might not "make it."
That I probably would not make it.
But I have made it.
I'm still alive.

The point of the story is.
If you want to take a bite of The Big Apple.
Be prepared to endure a little bit of food poisoning.
Although, like all things.
It's bound to pass.
(emotionally and through your butthole.)