Itinerantdaughter's Blog

Dear MTA,

This morning I woke up on time for work, what can only be called a rare occurrence.  Visions of coffee and bagels danced in my head as I hustled down to the G Train.  Alas, twenty-five minutes, and no train.  In an effort to salvage my professional reputation, I had to spend my last eleven dollars on a taxi, and as a result, have not been able to eat all day long.  Therefore, you, the MTA, owe me exactly eleven dollars, or approximately two small meals.  Please send payment/aliment to:

Itinerant Daughter

c/o the Guggenheim

1071 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10128

Regards,

ID

You are my world’s aliquot stringing.

Oh no, New York Times!

From an article entitled “Narcissism: The Malady of Me” on the removal of Narcissism from the DSM.

“Do you follow yourself closely on Twitter? Have you been blogging regularly about your coming memoir?”

I’ve done the latter… are you calling me a narcissist?!

The fact that the title of W. Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage makes the book sound WAY more interesting than it actually is.

A friend who I have not seen in quite a while and I were gchatting and he requested that I email him to make plans to hang out.  When I did, I congratulated myself for following through.  CB’s response:

1) Bonus points on the profriendessionalism (hybrid of “friend” and “professionalism”)

PROFRIENDESSIONALISM!  It’s a mouthful but it works.

My roommate has that fancy Google Voice thing with which your voicemails are converted to text and emailed to you, and apparently this is the message I left her on Saturday morning.  Try to guess what I was actually talking about.  If you can, I’ll pay you seventy-four million dollars:

Hey, it’s off that exciting, but I just looked into the the, bag of from last fall will be in and nursery baby need South America. So what we’re died tonight or whatever you just give need the last pair of need. Docs and then we can just have like a talk about or something. Alright, talk to you later. Bye.

at Mars Bar in NYC’s East Village, perhaps the REAL last vestige of downtown punk…

“I was a personal friend of John Lennon.”

“Nobody cook no fucking fish.  I got a seafood cooker.”

“That’s what you get for working for the people.”

“I need some legal advice!”
Guy wearing a camo coat and brandishing 2/3 empty bottle of cough syrup: “I can help.”
“I need a lawyer in South Carolina.”
“I know a lawyer in South Carolina.”
They exit.

Guy next to me at a Starbucks in Washington DC is writing an essay, the first line of which is:

“We struggle our entire lives to find ourselves.”

Eek, sad first line.  I kind of want to tap him on the shoulder and offer some guidance!

Irrumator –– Latin, noun –– a man who forces another man to perform oral sex on him