1. Thinking of You, Lenny Kravitz
2. Samantha, Hole
3. You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real), Sylvester
4. Tha Shiznit, Snoop Dogg
5. Burn, Hamilton cast recording
The C train is running express, which is making me feel extra effective this morning. The last few hours of my life has been running uncharacteristicly on schedule. I can just feel success beaming off of me. A cute boy slouches to my right; he has short cropped hair and glasses, I've caught him in a pensive moment, he doesn't realize his mouth is cartoonishly downturned. So cute, yet such terrible body language. "Such a pity," I think to myself. I press "shuffle" on my phone and Thinking of You by Lenny Kravitz begins to play.
I've been writing a live action script off and on for the last two years. We have auditions at the end of the week so I've been trying to make sure I get some writing done everyday in preparation for the open call. I managed to get some in before leaving the house, I go to the gym and try and some exercises I found on the internet. They hit muscles I clearly have never worked out in the past. A kid on a skateboard rides past me doing one of those kick flip things, I imagine the board flying out and hitting me in the ankle. The imaginary pain is excruciating.
Work has become a parody of itself. At least my interaction with one specific co-worker has. Every day she'll tell me exactly what she's going to do. But in this exasperated, "I CANNOT focus" kind of way. "Alright. I'm going to tuck myself away elsewhere so I can get away from this" she says as she motions to the room, full of people quietly working, "and get something done."
Spotify on my phone will not let me play any of my playlists, it's forcing me to shuffle. This is the point in the day that I begin to feel lazy. "What are my rules again?" I always insist on making little rules for myself like "Get up and go to the gym everyday" and "stop eating sweets at night before bed". I'm usually very good for like, two days and then it all falls to shit.
After work, I run a couple of errands and agree to meet Zach at a shopping event at John Varvatos. I don't take it very seriously until I arrive and then realize I am completely underdressed. Turns out Neil Patrick Harris' helicopter could not get out of the city ("Because of the Pope" an online magazine editor tells me with 100% sincerity), so he and David Burtka are in attendance. As well as Mr. Varvatos himself. I lie low, trying to not draw attention to my running shoes and casual shirt, emerging only to get to the open bar. An hour later I am sitting on a curb in SoHo, drunk on too many Manhattans and listening to the Hamilton cast recording.