For as long as I can remember, I have been intrigued by people who seem to have finished hysterically crying only moments before stepping into public. Not simply a sad face, I'm talking about the saddest-girl-in-the-world face of someone whose boyfriend just broke up with her through BBM or whose prom date just tore his ACL at soccer practice but is going to try and tough it out regardless, meaning she can't find a new date.

But as I'm battling my first serious bout of hay fever and people keep asking me if I'm okay, I'm becoming increasingly convinced that I've spent countless hours fixating on strangers, at least 50% of whom were probably just having a histamine reaction.

Due to a totally unexpected (and as far as I'm concerned unannounced) little government* project, my apartment is now about six blocks from a "beach." In Jersey shore terms this would increase it's value infinitely since previously it was probably five to ten miles from anything that could be called a beach. Maybe more, since I'm not even sure where the nearest so-called beach would be.

Pros:
It exists
It isn't full of tourists or NYU students or even people in general like every other sunbathing location in the city
There are two (2) Dunkin Donuts on the way
There seems to be a snack stand

Cons:
It will likely become super crowded once people realize it's here, tucked strangely behind the Express on pier 17
There's no clear precedent w/r/t wearing a bathing suit or laying down so I'm going to end up unevenly cooked
Even if one wanted to wear a bathing suit, the beach is right under a second story viewing deck, making it ripe for voyeurism and having things thrown at you
It's pretty small

All in all though, it will definitely suffice until global warming renders my street more literally beach front. At which point, I'll thank god I'm on the fifth floor.

*That's who does things like this, right? If it were private sector I'm guessing it would be the Lincoln Financial beach or the Gatorade beach or something. Is the Water Taxi public or private? Maybe they've branded it so sneakily I didn't even realize.

It's strange to me how quickly my aversion to plastic bags has sprung up. Like a year or more ago, I bought a fabric grocery bag but only to use as a casual purse that I couldn't find anything in because it's flimsy and clumsy and the pockets aren't differentiated because you're not supposed to be using it as a purse in the first place. And then now I'm eschewing plastic bags left and right, to the point that I'm wrecklessly denying bags to customers at my volunteer job. Like: "Sir, that bottle of Chaos already has a handle and it's pretty heavy so it would probably tear through the bag anyway so let's just skip that step, ok?"

And I don't even know where that fabric shopping bag went now that it could ascend to it's true calling.

Moving in New York is harder than finding a boyfriend.
1) You pretty much have to do it once a year. Even on the off chance that your current apartment(/boyfriend)'s quirks haven't driven you into the arms of another apartment(/boyfriend), your landlord* will probably realize he's not demanding enough of you raise the rent or kick you out or make you sign a two year lease or buy your apartment or something insane.
2) You pretty much have to make a year commitment. There is no such thing as an apartment one night stand (unless it's a sublet and you flee under cover of darkness, which is tricky and maybe almost as illegal as the fact that the person you're fleeing is subletting the apartment in the first place).
3) You can't do it drunk or at night. Realtors frown on this, I suspect.
4) Your friends will not help you (much) or offer support (much). Sometimes they'll even be too hungover to help you move, and you will have to accept this because moving is more miserable than first dates, by like a hundred-fold. And whereas most decent friends are willing to hear amusing dating anecdotes, you pretty much have to sleep with someone to get them to help carry your sofa.

On the plus side, it's way less sordid to pay someone to help you find an apartment. By like a hundred-fold.

*This analogy breaks down almost immediately, as I can't think of the boyfriend's landlord analog.
Nb. I'm writing this post and I'm still a full 2 and a half months from the end of my current lease. Very bad sign.

According to the trivia blurbs in our elevator at the office, the Spiderman movies grossed over $2.5billion. According to the stress tests, our banks need a lot of money, but less than we feared. But would as many people see Spiderman if they announced they were diverting the profits to TARP?

A few days ago I witnessed (and was nearly caught in the midst of) an interaction between two people that was so obviously counterproductive as to be almost unimaginable.

But I get ahead of myself.

You see, the Dunkin Donuts near my office, despite having truly awful coffee that's always burnt, is usually pretty crowded in the mornings, so they have a two line system where, theoretically, you walk in and pick whatever line seems shorter and once you get to the front of your line you order. And even though inevitably it seems like the other line is moving twice as fast and the moron paying in nickles is always in your line, it also feels like it's half your fault for picking the wrong one and besides you can't very well switch because theres now a whole line behind you.

But, on the fateful Tuesday, there wasn't really much of a line when I arrived so the three counter people were jockeying back and forth between the two lines and I ended up switching sides with the girl next two me and everything was fine and we were good and anyway coffee and donuts were coming to solve any problems that might have been lingering. And then the guy behind me, feeling entitled to go next since he'd arrived before the woman in the adjacent line, began to call his order to the cashier for the other line, only to be interrupted by the woman next to him (probably a regular) who believed that cashier belonged to her. Yelling and cursing ensued. Service stopped. I was thirty seconds later to work than I would have been otherwise because I was clinging to the counter to avoid getting involved.

Now I, of all people, understand that donuts are a serious matter and denying someone their coffee a capital offense, but it seems to me the aromas of powdered sugar and fry grease should engender a feeling of camraderie, a unity born from the knowledge that we're all about to do something terrible to our bodies because it feels good for a few seconds. The feeling of friendship I imagine bubbles up just before you're huffing a can of WD40 with the kid from down the street.

Moral of the story: I need to eat fewer donuts.