bird by bird

 

By Moyra Donaldson I'll have dewlaps and a hump and say what all the time in a cross voice: on every one of my bony crony fingers a ring. My lips painted with a slash of bright fuchsia, I'll drink margaritas by the tumbler full and if my dealer dies before I do, I'll just have to look for younger suppliers. I can't imagine not being interested in sex, but if it happens, so be it, really I could do with a rest, complete hormonelessness. I may forget who I am and how to find my way home, but be patient, remember I've always been more than a little confused and never did have much of a sense of direction. If I'm completely demented, I'm depending on friends: you know who you are.

Shout out to CH for passing this little nugget of wisdom on two months ago in an email to her closest city singles. It recently came up in conversation, so I thought I'd pass it along to the next round of city singles. The bad news is: it's all a myth. But that's also the good news.

October has been... whew. I packed more in the 31 days of October than I have many months combined. I was here and there. I stayed up late and woke up early. I took classes at NYU to get my certificate in Fundraising. I tutored an Israeli photography student in the Upper West Side. I spent time with a tall, grammar-conscious chef. I babysat. I organized. I didn't get enough sleep. I drank too much wine. I went to Bear Mountain for Octoberfest and to Sleepy Hallow Lake for Halloween. I stayed in bed too many hours with migraines. I felt happy and homesick and tired and full. I read books, but I didn't blog. I remembered 6 autumns ago, when I fell in love with Brooklyn for the very first time. I've felt like I'm falling in love with Brooklyn all over again.