I couldn’t tell you the exact date, but Memorial Day weekend is more or less my move to NYC anniversary. That’s 17 years. If I stayed in Portland instead and immediately made a baby, it would be a pretty old baby right now.
Nearly daily someone is mourning the loss of a classic (and Jeremiah Moss is called in for quotes). I’m more ruffled by the additions. Yesterday I spent 12 hours barely on social media because I was rearranging and writing 1,892 words on 13 pages (these reports defy physics) nearly finishing one of five short reports due a week from today so I missed this Gothamist post about Blues Traveler playing on a Ridgewood (every time I say Ridgewood I’m going to link to this forever ok?) rooftop. I honest to god thought for a second that the same wormhole I must’ve stepped into to spend all day on 1,892 words landed me in an alternate universe. Blues Traveler playing on a rooftop in Ridgewood is the sort of hazy happening I’d recall ten minutes after waking up before my brain had sorted out dream fiction snapshots from 2015 reality. This is me in real life.
I began halving my Topamax dosage last night so I’m hoping to get smarter again. I was thinking about the purported appetite suppressant properties and did have one realization: I haven’t had a single fourth meal/late night drunken taco truck stop in the past month, something I’d normally do once a week (I could certainly skim Instagram for exact patterns) and had opportunity to do so many times on my walk from the subway home after midnight.
So, maybe two fewer tacos a week translates to one pound per month (if I’m being generous/delusional–I don’t really think eating two extra tacos per week makes you gain .25 pounds) so by Memorial Day weekend 2016 I’ll be able to wear some of the clothes in my closest again. I can’t wait for my 18th anniversary.
I am now so radically changed that I just picked up two tacos for real dinner and have only eaten one. Ok, I’m going to go eat the other one now.