Recovering the Internet at Four in the Morning

Lucky me, wouldn't it happen to be that the only hour I get internet here might be a time when I should not touch it at all.

I'm slowly figuring out how to put the peices of my personal identification back together after having my wallet stolen twice in three weeks. AND NOTE: To you whom have them: there will be more to you later, but you should be ashamed of yourselves. One, because you know I didn't want to stay, and two because I only had one fucking dollar in it, and I hope you made good use of it. Good luck with my receipts and ticket stubs. You moron. I never understood what people said about not trusting New York City, really, until these things happened. Now unfortunately I guard my things in trains and bars like I have something left to take (which I don't), and I am glad I have friends who like to have fun at home (because I can't go out now), and a roomate who will pay for my train tickets to work each day. Shame on you. Both of you. But this is for another time, I digress.

I bought a journal. Once again I decided it was time to try the thing I was so obsessed with in my younger years, and went looking for a book today. Do you know how hard it is to find some plain book to put things in? I stood in the book store for maybe a half an hour, something that felt like forever, as I perused through the Batman, Hello Kitty, fake-moleskine "journals", meant to keep your utmost secrets and treasures. Well, i don't want a place to write my treasures, I just kind of want a place to write my shit, you know what I mean? Eventually I decided on some book with squiggels and a label that said "journal" emphatically on the outside, mostly for the reason that it only cost five bucks, but will make me look like a real asshole if I ever use it in public. Eh, everyone looks like assholes when they write in public though, right? So yeah, I bought a Gournal. Me and my Gournal. Good times ahead. Or maybe, at least, not so many confusing times. You know, now that I have my Gournal.

I read an article today about how to reduce to signs of aging and to live a longer life. One of their tips was "find small things that make you happy, and integrate them into your daily routine". "Great!," I thought, and I wrote it down. Like it was something new. Then I realized, I do this all the time, because I look at pictures of dogs on the internet nearly all the time, and feel like the most happiest girl on the planet. I immagine that once I have my own dog I will still do this. Because I can't seem to get over them, or wanting to save 30 of them to be my very own. So, according to this article in the lady magazine, I am going to live at least 20 years longer than everyone else I know. Joyous occasion.

So now that I'm admiting that I might be somewhat drunk, I have to ask the inevitable question: why does moving to New York to be closer to the things that you want to do mean that first you have to be as far away from them as possible?

At least it's spring. At least I'm here. Even if I have no proof that I exist and the government takes most of the money I earn. At least I am here. Ammong my idols ad my aimless peers.