A Rainy Night on Which I Was Supposed to Listen to Music

Ah Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in
Are you aware the shape I’m in?
My hands they shake, my head it spins
Ah Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in...

I came here, to Park Slope, because it would cost me half of what it cost to live on the Upper East Side, in a fifth-floor walk-up, slowly going crazy at 28. Or was I 29. Those times are kind of a blur. I remember my birthday party, where a cassoulet was spilled on a girl. She was hurt. No one was adequately kind about it. I wish we'd been nicer. Nobody liked her. But that's no excuse for callousness. We were cruel. We were young. 

You may not think 29 is young, but it is. And looking back, from the young-old-age of 35, I wonder what kinds of mistakes I'll make now that I see with simliar eyes someday. 

I came here with a friend, and met a new friend. I met a dozen others. We lived across the street from a Hagen Daaz we never really let ourselves get used to. We sometimes had fresh bagels for breakfast. We were not often sober. We had roommate fights. Who would clean, who would buy things, who made the coffee, who was allowed to sleep over... Nobody ever asked. Everyone always just did. We got angry. We got mean. We turned on each other. We regretted that. Because we really did, I still believe, really like each other a lot. We were just shitty roommates. 

I turned 30 there, and with a mix of fear and relief, I moved out. 

I bought my home and I now live here, and have ever since. And I have to say living alone is a mixed bag. Sometimes, on sunny, warm mornings, I make coffee and I watch trashy TV sitting in a patch of sunshine. Or there's snow outside and I revel in making a giant batch of chili to freeze to get me through the coming chilly weeks. 

But other times, like tonight, when the concert was postponed, and I had nothing planned... I dreaded going home to my apartment alone. I had no plan. Sure, there's always plenty to do in life. I could organize things. I could fold things. I could clean things. I could read things. 

Sure. I have dozens of books I've bought with every intention of reading. 

But on a night when you were supposed to be "not at home" to suddenly be "at home"... It stirs up some shit. Those fears that you'll be alone in this little apartment forever. That you're so easily cast off. That nothing you ever do matters, and that you'll always be the one making invitations. That nobody will ever think to remember you... And it makes me hate being single. Hate having no one here to wonder where I am. To curl up with on the sofa. 

Anyway. It obviously makes me feel sorry for myself, which is kind of weird. Self-pity is the most poisonous of feelings. 

If only I had just let it be a thunderstorm. 


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