talking, rumiating, on Freddy.

I met Freddy walking in the middle of the night in Williamsburg. He was smoking a cigar. He's always smoking a cigar. Always, he balances the never ending cigar on some little ledge outside to chill out while he goes inside; he snags it on his way out and puff-puff. It starts again. In and out of Katz's Deli where he bought us famous pastrami sandwiches. In and out of Whole Foods where we got sushi. In and out of Hampton Chutney where we got dosa. In and out of The Taj where we got Thali. In and out of WooHop late night chinese.

Freddy talks a lot. He says the same things over and over, a lot. In between cigar puff puffs. 

"Everyday party, everyday Christmas!

"Everyday party, everyday Christmas!"

And everything is "Cool. Cool. That's so cool!" My nude nail polish. My red lips. My hot eyes. My hot pants. My high boots. My hair down. My hair up. My attitude. The way I walk. I am a supermodel.

Freddy has stories where everyone always tells Freddy he is awesome in some way that always starts with, "Hey Freddy, man,..."

Freddy taught physics in central India. He was a professor. He did something in the stock market where he made a lot of money. He lost a lot of money and drives a taxi, every night of the week from 6pm to 7am.

He talks about karma, ying and yang, ups and downs. He was up up up for most of his life he says, so he knew this time would come where he's down down down. He confesses he was very depressed at one point. I think he still is. Why would everyday be a party and everyday be christmas otherwise? 

In one story, he picked up this cool chick, took her home and she invited him in and bada boom bada bing Mr. Worldwide is in the house! It means what you think it would mean. 

He talked about getting waffle street cart because everyone likes waffles and it's a good business. He talked about making a reality tv show called Fashion Cab, based on his cab and friends, like me and Robert. 

He calls me to ask how my day went and where I am so he can pick me up. He wants to show me all these cool places, which I know are cool. The Kenmare, the this, the that in Williamsburg. Everyone in Williamsburg is cool says Freddy. So cool. In Manhattan, there are more assholes because everyone thinks they're somebody. 

He knows probably everything there is to know about the astrological signs. And he has some incredible wisdom and remarkably clear, simple philosophies about people.

He doesn't have texting. But he started texting me two days ago: 

"Hi !!!!!!! Baby doll .... My barbie. How is ur day......Freddy"
"Sabrina!!!!!!! Sabrina!!!!!!! My cocorina !!! What's happening !!!!! How was ur day!!!!!!"

He talks to me like this. He talks to everyone like this. If you're into yoga, you're his guru, his yogi.

It worries me a little, the fact he started texting me. Sometimes he crosses the line I think and it makes it strange. He wants me but we both know that would never, ever ever happen. That's true with so many relationships we all have, or other ones I know I have; it must be true. I want to bake him cookies to thank him for all the free rides, but I don't want to be the one to give them to him. I want to go to all the places he talks about, but not with him, with other friends instead.

But it isn't wholly one sided. My discomfort isn't only in exchange for free rides, my company out of pity. Because sometimes his company has been wonderful. And he is so interesting, an interesting person to have in my life, if that makes sense.

V&B

Vicky, my dearest. It has been a while since we've spoken - physically or virtually - hello! I just read your post and if I may...would love to respond to it frankly.

Lovesickness is remedied by broken hearts. Broken hearts is remedied by love. You, my dear are in Chicago - one of the most alluring spots in the United States studying a graduate degree because you have been gifted by the literary gods with a fuel of dictionary genius. How many girls, plump fingers, and unused leads WISH they could be you. How many ridden with loss of words WISH they could be you. How many small envelopes WISH they could be in your position. Vicky, I do not know what loss of all close friends due to distance feels like nor do I know what Andrew's lack of voice feels like to your hungry ears, yet I do know that regardless of what sadness prevails in your day - there is an equal or greater amount of happiness that can be found. For melancholy loves to fog the eyes and mind with its eager desire to suppress our beams of joy that would shine so bright they would blind us with bliss. Basically, what I am saying is that it is you and you only that de-fogs and rises up above the smoke with a pride of life. For no one can rise you out of the blue waters of aching emotions other than you - the owner of the emotions. Be your own love to remedy a broken heart.

Sabrina, my sweet. Hello!

Weight. One of the most dangerous words in the land of insecure females. Oh, how this word fights fire and daggers the heart with a sense of self-hatred. Female weight issues is one of the most prevalent reasons of depression, insecurity, lack of confidence, submission, violent spouses - women who do not love their bodies lack a possession of self. You my attractive one - have dispelled yourself from any of the above because you have the "ideal body." So you can't eat what you want anymore, I do believe for the past years of your entire life you were that lucky soul who could eat whatever she pleases and never gain a pound. Many of us, including me, cannot eat whatever we want - for sugar slaps itself silly on my bust&butt. I know it must be hard for you maintaining a level of weight that many only see in two dimensions - however, when you complain about food like this it makes me feel somewhat inadequate. It makes me feel like I am fat - even though I know I am not even close to that word, but hearing you be so worried makes me look at myself in ways that I would rather not. You are beautiful and being thin is your job not a reason for you to guilt your metabolism into shame shits. Own the fact that being skinny is your job - give food a good bye kiss - Done Deal.

Men. Goodness how they posses our hearts! As for you my sweet Bri - I am afraid you are presenting your heart on a platter so any man can take it and eat it whole. I do remember your cooking skills being incredibly delicious and the heart is probably pumping with tenderness as they bite into it savouring that ungodly taste of a woman. Don't put your heart on a platter for anyone except for yourself! There is a difference between a heart platter and love - if I may be frank, I think you are serving your hearts more than you ever have as a side dish to your modeling. Whenever modeling is not going the way you expect or you are done with a good shoot for the week it is easy to think about boys - however, I want you to be the strongest woman alive who does a photo shoot for the sake of her profession. Sam might be inexplicably irresistable, yet he was your photographer and you his model - Done Deal. It sounds harsh, but it really isn't, I promise. It is simplethinking.

I think if you are able to focus much more on yourself rather than the boys - they will be the one presenting you with heart platters. And you with knowledge of this delicacy you will know not to devour it until you are completely sure. I love you Sabrina, do not let boys toy with that brilliant mind that I admired (and still do) for years in architecture school. You are stronger and smarter and have a will that those boys cannot even comprehend - you do not need anyone but your lovely long self. You are capable of an immense amount of love, so immense you probably don't know what to do with it half the time - so love yourself. For loving someone who loves themselves is a craving many ever satisfy.

LIMINAL

photos from sam. no particular order. you've seen them, ajna and vicky. i feel like posting them because i love them. i do. i look empty, like i'm wanting to be filled.

i met with sam today. i fell for his stupid accent and charisma before and still am drawn to it, to him, but with an annoyed and amused distance. he seems well aware of it. and well practiced at using it to get what he wants. i don't like the feeling of being used, because, let's face it, i got great photos too. but fuck, i need what he has or i wish i made him feel some mixture of desire, jealousy, admiration, annoyance, submission...how i feel towards him. it's like i'm powerless in our relationship, whatever it is.

Dear Metabolism, thank you for guilty shit?

I ate a bunch yesterday, and then had dinner plans with a new friend yesternight. = more eating. So we got dumpling and a sesame pancake and a sticky bun in the lower east side. And then we went to a muffin place and got banana creme puddin and a spicy pumpkin muffin. Needless to say, I was feeling guilty about eating so much shit, somewhere in my mind. I'm always feeling guilty when it comes to food; but it's my job to stay skinny, so it goes hand in hand I'd say.

But this happened to me before in New York on a particularly guilty morning where I worried about my consumption. I woke up sick. With a tummy ache. And shit, a bunch. Cleared my insides. It's like my guilt manifests itself in my metabolism. From mentally fucking with my mind to physically fucking me.

But of coarse it is a sick pleasure. Because the physical sickness is guilt free. This get-out-of-jail free card for my eating because my body coordinates with my head so I don't have to burn off the food, I just have to queezily expell it.

Usually, my best days are when I'm low on the scale when I weigh myself. I've avoided the scale like the plague lately; convinced that I'll eat less or better that day and so it's best if I weigh tomorrow. I weighed today, after I shit, of coarse. And I'll weigh again, after I shit again, if I do. And it will make me feel good.

That is so retardedly fucked up. But that's my little world. I watch the foodnetwork, eat tons and say I have a fast metabolism to everyone and myself, balancing on a mushy foundation of guilty eating.

The thing is, I try to pretend that my paranoia isn't there. That my best days aren't 'down' days on the scale in the morning. But here I am, loving that my fucking stomach woke me up 4 hours after I went to sleep and keeps churning away, because, maybe...just maybe...I'll get to shit take 3 this morning, which leaves more room for more food&guilt to fill my belly.

Cope cope mope

I've been running through a string of cliches in my attempt to move on.

When Dustin left, I went to Hole in the Wall every day, got drunk by 6, and grieved privately.

The night Andrew called, I was so stunned, I didn't even know what to do. Asking myself, am I supposed to cry now or what? I make tea and watch two romantically devastating films. And send an ill-advised e-mail to him after an hour or so of sleep. Since then I have generally subsisted on cigarettes, caffeinated beverages, and toast. Skipping class, embarking on lonely adventures. Bought drawing supplies (God I've missed charcoal), but couldn't focus for shit. Bought film, developed film-- and some of it was shot this summer when I visited him in DC. Went drinking with my roommates, saw a show with some people in my program. Social events are enjoyable, but temporary.

What is so generally shitty is that he has all his good friends in Austin, and it's life as normal for him. And here I am, in Chicago (and all of you are elsewhere), wondering what the fuck I'm doing, if this degree is worth it, and, pathetically, if staying meant we'd still be together. So many things don't make sense to me about what happened, and my questions have gone unanswered. But I can't make him respond, and I can't make him want to be with me. It'd be, I feel, stupid to try. And I feel so strange even thinking about calling him or texting him. Like I'm trespassing, somehow.

I've been having the most surreal, near terrifying dreams since that conversation, to the point where I dread sleep. And when I wake up, I have to remember and remind myself that we're not together anymore. It's the pinnacle of masochism.

If he told me he stopped loving me, that would be better than silence.