Well I just did a hell of a job of doing my own head in by going back and reading a load of shit I wrote just before I left New York. That's right, folks. I'm no Picasso had a past blog life, but that shit's all locked up tight now where no one can see, so don't bother looking for it.
It's amazing how ready I was to leave New York, and how much I was mentally preparing myself for it, long before it even happened. I've also forgotten how often bizarre little encounters were just as common (if not, actually, moreso) back in that city.
All the old cast of characters. My dozens of oddball roommates of all shapes and sizes. Dima, the seven foot tall jazz musician -- now, I'd like to find out what he's up to these days. I saw him one night right before I left. He randomly called out of the blue and I went down to see him play in some divey little bar on the proper island. We sat around having a few drinks and then said an awkwardly formal goodbye on the sidewalk outside.
Brendo's still around -- sent him an email last month and got a prompt response about how he's still in the States (swore he wouldn't be, last we talked), still in New York and still avoiding anything resembling a proper life.
And Skinny Whiteboy Poet. I had forgotten how utterly out of hand that entire situation got. Misguided from the beginning and taking a huge turn for the worse after I got shitfaced at "my" (I wasn't actually responsible for it, but my apartment was comandeered) dinner party and screamed at him about being a racist and a classist. For possibly what may have ended up being literally hours. Mike was so fucking hilariously rude to him straight to his face. And he deserved every ounce of it.
How many past lives do I actually have? I tend to leave them there in the past, more often than not, and rarely reflect back on them. But it's odd how, even though it was just a couple of years ago, it seems like a completely different world. Or at least a completely different person.
Well, I'll just live this one for now. Until I start to get that nagging feeling that the next one's about to begin.