ahh, week 3. no sleep and shittier than normal eating habits have finally caught up with me, tapped me lovingly on the shoulder and said, “sup?”
Sup? Nothing anymore now that I’m so pumped full of nyquil and zyrtec that I basically float dreamily through my day.
That said, this is how I feel:
Made it to the MoMA and took part in my favorite activity: standing amongst a large crowd of people trying to look at one sheet of paper. A paper from the collection of Tim Burton, who, in case you didn’t know, is the fucking shit.
Despite the mass of annoyingly slow people, the Burton exhibit was something I am so glad I got to see.
The year I graced this planet with my presence he was doing this:
Guy is amazing.
Later that day, I got shat on by this bird:
I feel special, finally in the good luck bird shit club.
Temperatures were on the rise starting Sunday, and precipitation went from this:
to rain rain rainy rain triple rain. I made it to the Brooklyn Museum anyway, with soggy feet and high hopes, met with another slow mass of people, this time for Who Shot Rock and Roll, an exhibit acknowledging the creative and collaborative role of photographers in the history of rock music.
Then we had coffee:
next door to that.
Made my way back to Harlem, bought shoes that weren’t dripping wet, and went to some guy’s (Jen and Mike’s friend’s) apartment for a birthday. Awkward at first, fixed that with Riesling and took these pictures on the way home:
that I thought were sooooo cool because I was (sooooo) stoned.
