January 5th, 2004

Volvo

(no subject)

I think I need to get into the city more often, if for no other reason than to perfect my hard-edged "city face" that will (hopefully) prevent random people approaching me in Barnes and Noble with a glazed look in their eyes, asking me if I'd like to talk to them. I was sitting in the cafe of the B&N in Union Square, on the floor, since there were no tables (This is a real problem with me-- whenever I get tired I just sit right down on the floor wherever I am, and I stay there until the pain in my butt becomes unbearable. Some of my friends no longer care to be seen in my presence because of this and my manager at Pottery Barn is convinced I am doing permanent damage to my ovaries) and during my time there on the floor no fewer than three different people approached me, saying things like,

"Would you be offended if I asked you a question?"

"Excuse me miss-- you seem like you have a nice face and might like to chat."

"I couldn't help but see you over here and want to come over to talk."

And I wish they would just wear big hand-lettered signs that specify what it is that they want: I WANT VOTES, I WANT MONEY, I WANT SEX. I want you to change your religion and then give me money and sex. And votes. Because without the signs I don't know-- I can tell they have an agenda and it may or may not involve spiking a bowl of Kool-Aid, but I just need to establish what it is they want so I can tell them I don't have it or do have it but won't give it to them because I have a cold, black heart.

But I don't have a cold, black heart, dammit, and I can't fake a convincing one. My brain sends out the signal, "DO NOT TALK TO THIS PERSON. DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH THIS PERSON. CLUTCH POCKETBOOK AND AVERT EYES IMMEIDATELY." and then my stupid mushy, yogurt heart goes,
"Now hold on just a minute. (And my heart has this sort of southern twang when it talks) What if this happens to be the one person in New York City who is just speaking to you out of pure kindness-- who wants nothing more than pleasant conversation? Wouldn't you feel awful if you were the one to crush them and their innocent dreams?"
"Well-- yeah. I guess I'd feel a little awful."
"So shouldn't you at least say hi to them."
"NO. *Covers own ears* No no no no no."
"Come on now, Raquel. Saying hi is the polite thing to do."
"I don't want to."
"Now don't be stubborn. And what are you doing sitting on the floor-- you're going to mess up your ovaries if you do that."
"Leave me alone." *Covers ears/Shakes head from side to side* Leave me alone, LEAVE ME ALONE, LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE I WANT MY YELLOW DRESS!"

And this being New York City, I am one of five or six people on that particular floor clutching my head and screaming, so I it's not as if I attract much attention. Still, doesn't it seem as if part of me is working for them?
It does, I think. I don't like it. Why can't I just be an iron-hearted bastard like everyone else?
  • Current Mood
    frustrated frustrated
Volvo

(no subject)

And here's a question:

Does anybody here use Netflix? And know if they censor their films?
And does anyone else take one long question and divide it up into two sentences? For no reason?