1. I'm pretty sure I got felt up by a blind man the other day. I had just finished my volunteer shift at the hospital and decided I was too tired and too famished to make it to class, so I indulged in my guilty pleasure of a street cart falafel sandwich. As I leaned against a wall on first ave and 26th street, I saw a man in his sixties, blind cane outstretched like a metal detector on the beach in front of him. I knew the cane was going to hit my legs but didn't want to be the condescending asshole who blurts out "I'M STANDING HERE" to a blind person. Imagine if they were like, "I know, I can smell you" or something. So I didn't say anything and I watched the cane hit my legs. Awkwardly and apologetically I mustered a "sorry, i'm standing here".
To which he replied in broken english further obscured by an eastern european accent, "can you help me cross the street?" Who could say no to an elderly foreign blind man??!!! I agreed and then I held out my arm for him to hold on to. Obviously, as he was blind, he couldn't see my arm, and instead reached out and grabbed a handful of my boob. Okay, maybe that one was my fault. So, I helped him cross the street juggling my unfinished falafel sandwich and soda while trying to keep us both balanced. Not an easy feat, especially considering I didn't want to spill my food on him a) because I wanted it and b) because I wouldn't know how to explain what had just happened to this stranger. So, we trudged along and crossed the street. After crossing, he asked if I was continuing in the same direction, to which of course, I promptly lied and said I was waiting for a bus at this corner. Yes, I am a total asshole, because in reality I was continuing in the same direction as he was, but really wanted to finish my sandwich and be alone (the most ironic thing a New Yorker can say- you are both forever lonely here and never alone at all).... So he walked along, slow as shit, and I picked a fresh spot of wall to lean on and ate my sandwich and felt more guilt than a whore in church. I hastily finished my sandwich and realized I couldn't walk by him without feeling horrible about myself. Looking back, I realize I wanted to help him to spare myself my own guilt more than make sure that he continued to cross the street safely, which is admittedly kind of pathetic- but, in truth, I think a lot of charity is motivated by guilt and the fact that helping others makes YOU feel good. Anyway, I chased after him the half block he had moved in several minutes and told him that I had missed my "bus" and could help him walk to where he was going- 23rd street. I held out my arm, and guided his hand to it- didn't want another altercation involving my lady lumps... After crossing another block, now at 25th, he let go of my arm and was outstretching his arm in front of me. I figured this was for balance as his other arm- the one with the cane- was outstretched. However, this positioning was obscenely awkward because in outstretching his arm, his hand rested on my stomach... Which I thought was weird, but kept walking anyway with his hand on my belly.... THEN, his hand hovered lower, and lower, till it rested on the outside of my pants on my crotch. I pulled the move most women have pulled at a club when they are not quite slutty/drunk enough for this to happen. I did the loud chuckle and moved his hand back to my stomach. Had I not been in shock/awkwarded out by the whole thing, I probably would have left him right then and there to his own blind devices. However, I am an idiot and continued to walk the last block with him to his destination, where his hand traveled down the outside of my pants once again. Once I hit 23rd street, I ran away without saying goodbye.... I'm still not exactly sure if it was intentional.... you know, the weird touching, but I now can cross the "got felt up by a blind man on first ave" whole thing off the bucket list.
2. I hate my backpack. Literally, I have no idea why I haven't gotten another one yet, but it probably has something to do that everything I buy in Manhattan is twice the price of it anywhere else. Like a box of cereal here is six bucks, and I have no money, considering the trader joe's wine shop is on my block as well and tempts me to go in and buy a bottle of venetian moon every time I pass it. Back to my backpack. I have had backpack related trauma since childhood.
In kindergarten, I had a nice royal blue jansport that lasted me until the second grade. That was probably one of my favorite backpacks. In the third grade, I decided it was time to act like I was in an airport while at school and wheel around my belongings. I was so adult then. Of course, like every roller backpack ever, it was a horrible idea and the backpack was so damaged by the end of the year that it was more of a liability to my stuff than a protector of it because everything was falling out of it all the time. I'm also pretty sure I got that backpack in the boy's section of GAP- because obviously that's where quality girl's roller backpacks should be bought. Fuck that "backpack". In the fourth grade, I got this really bizarre back pack that was also jansport (I wasn't allowed to get anything else because of the previous incident with the GAP backpack) but it wasn't the typical jansport. It was this stupid one strap thing that went across the front of my body and then had an diagonally positioned sack that rested awkwardly across the span of my back. This is probably the worst back pack ever engineered ever, and like the roller, it was a "backpack". THEN, came the backpack I have now. This backpack came as a gift to me on my 10th birthday before I started the fifth grade. By this point, my parents refused to buy me another backpack because I was 0/2 on recent "backpack" purchases. AND, how conveniently, one of my friends bought me a new backpack for my birthday. So there I was, 10 years old, and with a backpack I hated. Tragic. I hated this backpack for the same reason I hate it now. Its a jansport with the two big compartments-which makes it too damn big all the time. Its also this obnoxious shade of green that I just- hate. There's way too many compartments and the whole backpack just gets filled with useless shit and I end up finding travel size toothbrushes and receipts from 2004 whenever I'm trying to find something important, like my student ID to swipe into buildings, or my credit card, or a goddamn pen. After a year of agony and constant complaining, my mom bought me another backpack. This one was light pink, jansport, corduroy. This was also a good backpack of mine. I used it all of the sixth and seventh grade and by the time I was done with it, it was a gross brown color and had holes in it. Clearly, I took good care of my shit when I was 11 years old. By the time this backpack died, I was in the eighth grade and I was the hottest shit alive. Part of me truly does believe that I peaked at 13- it was the only time in my life where I had the "skinny with curves" kind of look. LOL. I can't believe I just admitted that but obviously anyone who was reading this is now frothing at the mouth or unconscious because no one has ever rambled for so long about backpack struggles. But thats okay, because I can't blog for the fans anymore- it creates too much pressure. So, throughout 8th and 9th grade, I carried around a series of "off the shoulder totes". A favorite was a lesportsac brown tote with hearts on it that I stole from my grandma's closet, another was this black pleather bag (from GAP as I did not learn my lesson 8 years before when I bought my first GAP bag) and somewhere in there also was a red bag (also from GAP. This is getting humiliating). The summer before 10th grade I finally realized I looked like an idiot holding the majority of my shit in my hands because not a single textbook of mine fit in my tote- god forbid I also brought lunch or a water bottle. SO, I begged my mom for another backpack. I think I was at sport chalet when I picked this baby out- magenta, because I was 15 and embracing the feminine. This would have been a great backpack, except for the fact my 6 year old sister had bought the same one that day with my dad. Don't think I didn't arrive to school on more than one occasion with nothing but paint by numbers and glue sticks in my backpack while my first grade sister showed up to coloring with a bunch of honors chem homework. My life is a joke. This magenta confusion lasted until senior year when I stopped caring about everything, apathy overcame my existence, and I showed up to school most days with a pencil, a notebook, and a hangover. No backpack was needed because I was too cool and couldn't bring myself to be organized or have anything I needed ever. I didn't even have a locker senior year... sigh. To be young again.
So then, I went on this gap year thing and disappeared for a while. That was lovely and I miss it everyday. I had three phenomenal backpacks that year, a relatively large backpacking backpack for all my clothes, a mid sized north face, and a tiny REI lime green one for adventuring. These backpacks are the best I've ever had. EVER. The north face one which would be appropriate for use is pretty dirty, but I don't want to take the dirt of it- because that dirt is from Africa. Sorry bout it.
So then, I arrive at college without a thought as to what backpack I should use. I literally don't remember bringing the green machine that I got when I was ten (scroll up) at all- why would I- but somehow, here I am, everyday, using that same fucking green monster that I got as a gift on my tenth birthday. Also, despite thinking about my hatred of my backpack everyday, I did not ask for a new backpack on any kind of holiday list. This was a rookie mistake, because I can't ask for anything between Christmas and my summer birthday. I guess I'll hold out for July 9, 2013, my 20th birthday, and finally get a functional backpack 20 years into life.
*dreaming of a understated backpack*
To which he replied in broken english further obscured by an eastern european accent, "can you help me cross the street?" Who could say no to an elderly foreign blind man??!!! I agreed and then I held out my arm for him to hold on to. Obviously, as he was blind, he couldn't see my arm, and instead reached out and grabbed a handful of my boob. Okay, maybe that one was my fault. So, I helped him cross the street juggling my unfinished falafel sandwich and soda while trying to keep us both balanced. Not an easy feat, especially considering I didn't want to spill my food on him a) because I wanted it and b) because I wouldn't know how to explain what had just happened to this stranger. So, we trudged along and crossed the street. After crossing, he asked if I was continuing in the same direction, to which of course, I promptly lied and said I was waiting for a bus at this corner. Yes, I am a total asshole, because in reality I was continuing in the same direction as he was, but really wanted to finish my sandwich and be alone (the most ironic thing a New Yorker can say- you are both forever lonely here and never alone at all).... So he walked along, slow as shit, and I picked a fresh spot of wall to lean on and ate my sandwich and felt more guilt than a whore in church. I hastily finished my sandwich and realized I couldn't walk by him without feeling horrible about myself. Looking back, I realize I wanted to help him to spare myself my own guilt more than make sure that he continued to cross the street safely, which is admittedly kind of pathetic- but, in truth, I think a lot of charity is motivated by guilt and the fact that helping others makes YOU feel good. Anyway, I chased after him the half block he had moved in several minutes and told him that I had missed my "bus" and could help him walk to where he was going- 23rd street. I held out my arm, and guided his hand to it- didn't want another altercation involving my lady lumps... After crossing another block, now at 25th, he let go of my arm and was outstretching his arm in front of me. I figured this was for balance as his other arm- the one with the cane- was outstretched. However, this positioning was obscenely awkward because in outstretching his arm, his hand rested on my stomach... Which I thought was weird, but kept walking anyway with his hand on my belly.... THEN, his hand hovered lower, and lower, till it rested on the outside of my pants on my crotch. I pulled the move most women have pulled at a club when they are not quite slutty/drunk enough for this to happen. I did the loud chuckle and moved his hand back to my stomach. Had I not been in shock/awkwarded out by the whole thing, I probably would have left him right then and there to his own blind devices. However, I am an idiot and continued to walk the last block with him to his destination, where his hand traveled down the outside of my pants once again. Once I hit 23rd street, I ran away without saying goodbye.... I'm still not exactly sure if it was intentional.... you know, the weird touching, but I now can cross the "got felt up by a blind man on first ave" whole thing off the bucket list.
2. I hate my backpack. Literally, I have no idea why I haven't gotten another one yet, but it probably has something to do that everything I buy in Manhattan is twice the price of it anywhere else. Like a box of cereal here is six bucks, and I have no money, considering the trader joe's wine shop is on my block as well and tempts me to go in and buy a bottle of venetian moon every time I pass it. Back to my backpack. I have had backpack related trauma since childhood.
In kindergarten, I had a nice royal blue jansport that lasted me until the second grade. That was probably one of my favorite backpacks. In the third grade, I decided it was time to act like I was in an airport while at school and wheel around my belongings. I was so adult then. Of course, like every roller backpack ever, it was a horrible idea and the backpack was so damaged by the end of the year that it was more of a liability to my stuff than a protector of it because everything was falling out of it all the time. I'm also pretty sure I got that backpack in the boy's section of GAP- because obviously that's where quality girl's roller backpacks should be bought. Fuck that "backpack". In the fourth grade, I got this really bizarre back pack that was also jansport (I wasn't allowed to get anything else because of the previous incident with the GAP backpack) but it wasn't the typical jansport. It was this stupid one strap thing that went across the front of my body and then had an diagonally positioned sack that rested awkwardly across the span of my back. This is probably the worst back pack ever engineered ever, and like the roller, it was a "backpack". THEN, came the backpack I have now. This backpack came as a gift to me on my 10th birthday before I started the fifth grade. By this point, my parents refused to buy me another backpack because I was 0/2 on recent "backpack" purchases. AND, how conveniently, one of my friends bought me a new backpack for my birthday. So there I was, 10 years old, and with a backpack I hated. Tragic. I hated this backpack for the same reason I hate it now. Its a jansport with the two big compartments-which makes it too damn big all the time. Its also this obnoxious shade of green that I just- hate. There's way too many compartments and the whole backpack just gets filled with useless shit and I end up finding travel size toothbrushes and receipts from 2004 whenever I'm trying to find something important, like my student ID to swipe into buildings, or my credit card, or a goddamn pen. After a year of agony and constant complaining, my mom bought me another backpack. This one was light pink, jansport, corduroy. This was also a good backpack of mine. I used it all of the sixth and seventh grade and by the time I was done with it, it was a gross brown color and had holes in it. Clearly, I took good care of my shit when I was 11 years old. By the time this backpack died, I was in the eighth grade and I was the hottest shit alive. Part of me truly does believe that I peaked at 13- it was the only time in my life where I had the "skinny with curves" kind of look. LOL. I can't believe I just admitted that but obviously anyone who was reading this is now frothing at the mouth or unconscious because no one has ever rambled for so long about backpack struggles. But thats okay, because I can't blog for the fans anymore- it creates too much pressure. So, throughout 8th and 9th grade, I carried around a series of "off the shoulder totes". A favorite was a lesportsac brown tote with hearts on it that I stole from my grandma's closet, another was this black pleather bag (from GAP as I did not learn my lesson 8 years before when I bought my first GAP bag) and somewhere in there also was a red bag (also from GAP. This is getting humiliating). The summer before 10th grade I finally realized I looked like an idiot holding the majority of my shit in my hands because not a single textbook of mine fit in my tote- god forbid I also brought lunch or a water bottle. SO, I begged my mom for another backpack. I think I was at sport chalet when I picked this baby out- magenta, because I was 15 and embracing the feminine. This would have been a great backpack, except for the fact my 6 year old sister had bought the same one that day with my dad. Don't think I didn't arrive to school on more than one occasion with nothing but paint by numbers and glue sticks in my backpack while my first grade sister showed up to coloring with a bunch of honors chem homework. My life is a joke. This magenta confusion lasted until senior year when I stopped caring about everything, apathy overcame my existence, and I showed up to school most days with a pencil, a notebook, and a hangover. No backpack was needed because I was too cool and couldn't bring myself to be organized or have anything I needed ever. I didn't even have a locker senior year... sigh. To be young again.
So then, I went on this gap year thing and disappeared for a while. That was lovely and I miss it everyday. I had three phenomenal backpacks that year, a relatively large backpacking backpack for all my clothes, a mid sized north face, and a tiny REI lime green one for adventuring. These backpacks are the best I've ever had. EVER. The north face one which would be appropriate for use is pretty dirty, but I don't want to take the dirt of it- because that dirt is from Africa. Sorry bout it.
So then, I arrive at college without a thought as to what backpack I should use. I literally don't remember bringing the green machine that I got when I was ten (scroll up) at all- why would I- but somehow, here I am, everyday, using that same fucking green monster that I got as a gift on my tenth birthday. Also, despite thinking about my hatred of my backpack everyday, I did not ask for a new backpack on any kind of holiday list. This was a rookie mistake, because I can't ask for anything between Christmas and my summer birthday. I guess I'll hold out for July 9, 2013, my 20th birthday, and finally get a functional backpack 20 years into life.
*dreaming of a understated backpack*
