Thank you, saxophonist on the corner of 1st and Houston, for showing emotion.
Thanks to this paper cup of coffee, for its unconditional warmth.
Thanks to Jyll for keeping me in mind, even if it was while purchasing popular pre-teen literature (and even though it has led to the degradation of my personal reputation at the café; one patron even offered to bring an alternate book jacket to conceal the tell-tale cover design. A Playboy. A National Enquirer. Anything but Twilight).
Thanks to the quartet of Canadian tourists who left a gift for me at the café last Sunday night. “I think its wine,” my boss shrugged, affecting an air of nonchalance. It was, fortuitously, a bottle of vodka.
Thanks to Caitie for hosting an apartment-warming party tonight, to which I shall bring the aforementioned vodka and a considerably smaller bottle of tonic water. These two liquids, imbibed in tandem, will facilitate the abolition of East Village Todd from my thoughts (if only for one Friday night).
Thanks to Rose for inviting me into her home for Thanksgiving: an incredibly warm invite from an incredibly gracious human being.
Thanks to my new co-worker for her thoughtful assurance. “I could definitely see you in France,” she agreed after I had divulged my ideal of ex-patriotism. I told her of my plan to extract myself from this city and from the half-hearted embrace of Uncle Sam. I want to knead bread in a patisserie, I told her. And begin smoking, lightly. And read Simone de Beauvoir while licking my fingertips, sticky with brie and honey. “I think you should,” she concurred, nodding with an almost grave certainty.
Thanks to the 1st avenue barista who smiles at me in recognition. To him, I am not a lost girl. To him, I am a loaf girl, someone who knows exactly what she wants, even if it’s just a simple piece of banana bread.
Thanks to John Mayer for the new album, for indulging my self-manufactured heartache; thanks to Lady GaGa for providing counter-balance to my self-pity; thanks to Norah Jones for keeping an even keel. Special thanks to Brandi Carlile for provoking a serious (if brief) consideration of lesbianism.
Thanks to all the NYC crazies for making me feel somewhat less batty by comparison. Thanks to the tatterdemalion who, earlier this afternoon, addressed a garbage can with the utmost sincerity (“You LOOK so HUMAN!”).Thanks to the man who brandished a cigarette lighter on the R train, setting fire to his right knee-cap. Thank you, over-lipsticked East Village woman, for gloating that you once lasted two years without brushing your teeth (“My gums didn’t even BLEED!”). Thanks, guy who walked into the café wearing a diaper; thanks for not caring about social boundaries, and for choosing not to shave your thighs.
Thanks to everything that gives reason for pause; to every small thing that gives every larger thing reason.