Rosé? Not what I was expecting.

I lost the Benny Lewis book. It’s either at the gym or the post office.

I’m at a bar by my current apartment in Williamsburg, drinking alone. I prefer it this way. Except for the fact that the bartender judged my choice of alcohol (and me). Shut up, bartender.

But really, should I order food?

This is the song playing right now. I can change.

Je parle un peu de français

I’m not an asshole. Not a complete asshole, at least. I would never move somewhere and expect the locals to adhere to understanding my foreign tongue. I cannot stand Americans who travel and speak English s-l-o-w-e-r and LOUDER. I need to learn Spanish. I figure no matter what happens, Spanish is useful. Plus, they say becoming bilingual expands your worldview.

When I visited Baja in April it seemed it would have been close to impossible to get around without at least a conversational mastery of the language. I was reliant on my man with a van guide. His name is Jed. I was reliant on Jed, and I feel like, without him there I would have had a lot of trouble. I am really not into leaning on other people, especially to communicate. That debt… $100k of it is for my fancy NYU Communications degree. It’d be a real fucking head hanger if I didn’t pride myself in interpersonal connections, after all that.

I signed up for a 10 week Beginner’s Spanish class at Berges Institute in NYC with an $89 Groupon. That doesn’t start until June 22nd. To supplement for now, I bought Benny Lewis’ Language Hacking Spanish. That came in the mail yesterday and I read 3-pages this morning. For the last week I have been using this app, Duolingo, which is free and pretty awesome. This is what I can say so far:

Yo cocino pescado

Tu eres un perro

Nosotros no comemos una naranja

The important stuff. I’m kinda proud though. I’ve enlisted my coworker Laura, who grew up in the Dominican Republic, to let me speak really poor Spanish to her. She’s correcting my pronunciations.

I studied French all through high school and some college. I can barely speak French. But if I try really hard, really hard, and practice A LOT, yo hablo español (I don’t quite know how to say ‘I can speak Spanish’).

A man with a van

I cannot stand New York City. I think that is just part of what it means to be a New Yorker. Because honestly I love it, I just cannot fucking stand it. But does anyone genuinely like it here? It seems like everyone is always planning to live somewhere else. I have been here for 12 years. Came in from Long Island. I lived in Prague for a four month study abroad in 2008 and Florida for a one year who knows what in 2004… otherwise, I’ve just been here. I wanted to write a song called “Everyone Leaves Me in New York,” but I cannot write music, or sing, or play an instrument.

I want to tell you who I am, but it is a funny thing, describing yourself to strangers (or to an echoing, cavernous Internet). You have to choose what is important.

Here.

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I am the one in the middle (sandwiched between two of the best people I know). I am thirty years old. Still love crop tops (still sorry, Dad). Off the bat these are my self-description sharing choices:

1 – I am $160k in debt. That is not a typo.

2 – My desk job makes me feel like a zombie. Should you be scared that I will eat your flesh? Maybe…

3 – I haven’t been in a committed relationship in 6 years. You’ll make assumptions about how this makes me feel. If I keep writing, I’ll tell you how it makes me feel.

4 – All my friends are coupling off. Make your assumptions, I’ll elaborate in time.

5 – I always thought I would wind up a nomad with some nontraditional life. Since I was a kid. It eats me up that I haven’t gotten there. It has been gnawing at me, really, for my entire forever. I found this from seven years ago:

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You need to know those things because that is what brought me to today. No matter what, I am not staying in New York City. I have made my decision that finally, I am serious; this time I am leaving. I say this a lot. But now, it is different. This guy, this man with a van, he gave me the final push, which was inspiration, and, maybe, something more. But again, more on that later.

Now I have a plan. The start of one, at least. I feel so alive I want to fall over and die because it is almost too much for my heart to handle, finally beating for something. I’ve been waiting for so long to want. It all seems so fucking clear. There are so many pieces to what I am trying to say.

I can’t wait to tell you all about it.