We Must Be In A Lecture Hall, Because These Are Just Projections.

I.) I can't say, "If there's one thing I love," because it simply isn't true, but I can't say, "When there's one thing I love," either, because at any given point in time I am simultaneously loving multiple things, which is to say, "When there's one thing I love," is equivalent to: "Never."

II.) Anyways: when I observe stupid behavior in public, I like to think to myself, "Man, that person looks so fucking dumb." But, in most cases, said stupid behavior is something I know fully well that I do too. Just not at that moment. Like running in place when you're stopped at a crosswalk because you don't want to lose your momentum, your drive, your will to go all the way to the Seaport and back. There was this woman doing that, you know, bobbing up and down, like a buoy, or maybe a wild turkey on crack, at the corner of 13th and A, and I thought, "Jesus, she looks stupid." Which was when I realized I was going to Hell. Because, even after I thought, "Hey, you know, I do that too," I still laughed at her, convincing myself that there's no way I could look that dumb because A. I'm just that cool, or B. I must look so dumb that I look cool, or C. No one really gives a shit about me and my crosswalk rituals. Maybe I'm the only living asshole in New York.

III.) Well, I've got this weird feeling in me, and let's not talk about where it is, because it's not even a matter of where, and if we say "where" it'll just make me worried about babies. But, oh, child, here's the down-low if we're gonna go down, throw down, get down, can ya dig it? You don't tell me how to love my body. You don't take off my clothes unless I give you the go-ahead. And there's no way that I'm going to feel paranoid about what you think of my paranoia. We're almost the same, when it comes down to it. We're over-thinkers through and through. And the truth is, most of the time, I'm just trying to convince myself that I don't look dumb when I run in place.

I Took My Nose Out Back, And Shot It Like Ol' Factor.

I speak like I write, which is to say, vaguely.
Which is actually to say, not vaguely at all. In fact, there's so much description and manipulation of language that it's practically the opposite of vague. It's downright specific, specific to the point of such great specificity that it's vague.
But this isn't really about that.
(Well, what would you expect? We should always assume that this is about this and that is about that. That/this is how it works. But don't get me started on it. Shh.)
It's about how I speak like I write, which is to say, I use a lot of commas.
It's confusing, supposedly. I use commas to break up sentences in ways so dastardly that you'd think I'd have divided by zero. I'll use them to create pre-pre-preambles and disclaimers spoken so far in advance that, by the time I get to whatever it is that I'm disclaiming, you'll have forgotten when and where I began.
I don't have time to give you examples.
No one has time for commas these days, anyways.
And I'm sure that my examples would contain a lot of them.

Here's what I actually wanted to talk about:

I've always wanted to have a signature scent, because I dress plainly and simply and I like to think that I'm the sort of lady you might associate with that understated elegance, that elegance that says, "I don't need very much makeup or jewelry, but thank you for the offer, 79th suitor I've had this week," and that elegance seems to be accompanied by a scent, you know, the sort of scent left in an elegant woman's wake. Because you know those women, don't you? You see them on the street and can't believe how elegant they are, and how it looks like they don't even try because, really, they don't, they're too busy doing elegant things like ___________________. And you're wrong if you think that you can get rid of those women easily. Because it isn't your mind or your heart where they'll be stuck for all eternity: it's your nose. Long after you've managed to rid yourself of the sight of them, the scent of them will continue to mill about your sinus region, and you'll wonder why everythingeverythingeverything smells like Guerlain Samsara, like Chanel No. 5, like Bulgari Eau Parfumée au Thé Vert.

And, if you're lucky, you'll sneeze.
If you're even luckier, you'll have had a tissue handy.
Because it will be filled the most elegant snot you've ever seen.

The nose is funny like that.

Like when I was running and could have sworn that I smelled blood but maybe it was only because I was listening to Jimi Hendrix and well I have some very predatory urges I guess.

Elegant women probably don't run.
And they probably don't listen to Jimi Hendrix.
And they probably don't smell blood.

There simply isn't enough room to do all that when you're trapped in someone's nose.

Here's To Wit, Charm, And Grace (Kelly, Who Starred Opposite Cary Grant, But Not In This**).

"What's your train of thought?"
"The Southwest Chief. What's yours?"
"It's more of a stream."
"Oh."
"A stream of consciousness."

**I said Southwest Chief because of him. Because of North by Northwest, I mean. But you should know that it was actually the 20th Century Limited that he and Eva Marie Saint took. Have I mentioned that you've always reminded me of her? Probably not. Probably not, because it isn't that you really remind me of her, it's that I'd like to encounter you, by chance, on the 20th Century Limited, and, before I learn that you're a no-good-double-crossing-vixen, seduce you, or let you seduce me, or maybe both. It's like I was saying, you know, how trains are romantic, but so are airplanes and cars and ships and bicycles. Transportation is romantic, let's just say. And I don't know if it's because of where you're going or how you're getting there or who you're going to see or who you're going with. But it's romantic, let's just say.

Here's to hoping that my tracks cross a stream sometime.

But, Right Now, You're Popping Blisters On Your Feet, And I'm The One To Blame. Or: "Sorry For Making You Walk Barefoot When We Went Home."

Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood --
"Now that's the beginning of a comedy act," you interrupt.
Which is something I guess you'd say.
It's weird writing this after I just told it to you.
It's even weirder that I'm writing this while watching you do pull-ups on that stupid pull-up bar that I pretend to hate but won't tell you that I actually hate because I know you're fond of it and no way no how am I going to juice your dream like they did on the 5:30 AM infomercials for those power juicers I used to watch when I used to do pull-ups when I was in high school but you didn't know that did you?
Surprise!
Anyway.
Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood, I like to think back to our freshman year together, when you, in a fit of indignant rage, wrote the most aggressive passive-aggressive note I've seen to date, directed towards "the sick fuck" who was responsible for smearing poop on your bath towel.
You were convinced that it was one of your suitemates.
I don't think I've ever seen you so angry.
And that's why it makes me laugh.
I also laugh because I was convinced that you, by some washroom oversight, some happy accident, some hilarious trick of the universe that was that bathroom, were the one responsible for that stain.
"That's what I fear," you interrupted.
Now, that's the beginning of a comedy act.