August 1

  Just let the rain wash tree sap and two months of dirt off my car, then rinsed it with tap water from a watering can. Sometimes even I'm surprised at how good I am at being a professional brokeass.

  Before I left, my dad insisted on us washing and waxing my car, for some unknown reason that immediately became nullified the minute we bounced onto the dirt road I briefly lived on. But even then, I doubted New Yorkers would be judgmental of my dirty and/or matte (some parts are never shiny -- I think bits of it were painted with house paint) auto. If anything, they'll be judging me because of my Williamson County plates or the fact that I'm driving 70 miles an hour with my arm hanging out the window. Not because my car's a little dusty.

  Yesterday was an epic boxing marathon with BB. Fifteen or so boxes with some great stamps, though we were on this hellish trail for roughly four hours. The mosquitoes were also out in full force and must have sensed weakness because they attacked with surprising ferocity. I'm totally covered in bites: it looks like I have about four elbows on each arm. This is the itchiest I've been in quite awhile, which is something considering I get chiggers almost every summer from wandering into swamps, etc. with shorts on.

  The depression over the alc situation was short-lived -- while it's sad to think that everything I took for overtures of romance was all in my mind (and the minds of every friend I ran the story by), it's not like I really lost anything in my brief period of pretending to live a normal teenage life. That doesn't mean, however, that I'm not ducking his messages asking when I'll be back. Leaving me hanging for two months was kind of a dick move and not something I'll forget quickly. Also, I think we can put the blame for the misunderstanding squarely on his shoulders -- before he started acting like he liked me, I had no idea who he even was despite the fact that he lived down the hall.. I thought his name was Patrick for at least six months, for crying out loud. But I'm pretty past it. Number nine on Sheldon Kopp's Eschatological Laundry List says it all: "There is no particular reason why you lost out on some things."

  Back to what I actually meant to post about: last Friday. I'm going to summarize because, just like it did two years ago, thinking back on periods of intense awesomeness makes me kind of sad in the present because they're over and my life is no longer loud, glittery, and full of dudes in spandex making inappropriate jokes and embracing me.

  Anyway.

  The day didn't get off to a particularly auspicious start -- I got sick and we missed the morning train a total of three times -- but things began to look up after we got into the city. We started off at the New York Public Library to ride the lions out front and check out the redonk interior. Aside from boatloads of tourists, there were actually people in there trying to use it as a legitimate library. I have no idea why they even bothered -- how much studying are you getting done while nerdy bibliophiles (us) are posing for pictures in the stacks?

  Did that for awhile, then booked it to the Met (my second attempt -- damn you, Madame X!), only to find the American wing still closed. What? At least more of the European painting rooms were open, so I got to see some new things, if not what I actually came for.

  After that we hightailed it across Central Park to the legendary Shake Shack (though in true Broke Diaries style, I had brown-bagged a PB&J for the commute), which may well be NYC's only legit burger establishment. People regularly line up around the block for this place, and it was pretty delicious. I think the secret ingredient that so captures the hearts and palates of NYers has to be the banned trans fat they can't get anywhere else. But I could be wrong. Then to Alice's Tea Cup, a cute little tea room where we experienced pumpkins scones, Trafalgar Square tea, and the jarring realization that there was no way in hell we were going to make Brooklyn by 7 p.m.

  Outside it was starting to rain. Ruuuuun to the subway, ride a couple stops while trying to map our route, then emerge above ground to find it still raining. More running as we try to make it to the venue before 7 (show isn't til 8:30, but before 7 there's no cover -- our choice is clear), and suddenly it is hurricane.

  It was one of those things that is so awful it's good: I'm soaked to the bone, maps and papers disintegrating in my  pathetically non-waterproof bag, Brooklynites staring as we sprint through puddles and yell in the rain about where the hell Wythe Avenue could be.

  We finally make it there (albeit too late to get in free) and truck it on up to the ladies' room to dry our hair and selves under the hand dryers, and in my case, whip out my Tragedy t-shirt.

  To be continued...