I haven't left my apartment all day. I was planning on killing a bottle of wine with Isabella, going across the street, aluminum casserole dish in hand (to keep the bum warm and dry), and sledding down the treacherous ant hills of Prospect park.
But the snuggie was calling. It always does.
I have a great view of the 10 or so inches--or maybe 20, or 60, i dont fucking know-- piling up around the back end of the Pavilion movie theater, but it's not quite doin' it for me. I enjoy a blizzard as much as the next guy, especially if you don't have to go to work or be productive to society in any way as it's going on. But when I have to strain my neck to see past the billboard from New York Sports Club reminding me to get off my perpetually plumping ass and get a glimpse of something resembling nature, snowy trees, and snow-flaky wonderlands, I'll just as well not look outside. The other window in my house overlooks the continuous backyard patios my neighbors on 15th st. The snow gathering on criss-crossing telephone wires that litter the sky and balancing on swaying swings of fischer price play structures behind 3-million dollar park slope brownstowns is beautiful, but I wouldnt say it pulls at my heart strings. It would be more beautiful, of course, if I stopped with all my sour pussying cynicism. I really should just get up and go to the park, maybe the fresh air and snow will do me some good. I've dirtied up my nails, anyhow, with all this climbing of the walls.
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