Two weeks of constant social interaction, asleep and awake, followed by five days trapped in my closet of a room cut off from the outside world. It’s been a slow progression but I’ve nearly started to like it. I almost have the Fire Medallion in Ocarina of Time and I’m close to hallucination from malnourishment after vomiting up every ounce of my stomach lining and replacing it only with saltine crackers and coconut water. There are gates on my windows that make my room feel like a cage. I wake up only to stare out at the gloomy sky and wonder what could I possibly be missing. Watching movies on Netflix and playing video games seems like an excellent use of time. If I can get my friends Ps3 then I can play Skyrim until winter is over. Then I won’t have to talk to anyone, I did too much talking recently, too much socializing. Now I’m that hamster you put in the closet because it was too noisy, and you forgot about it. But it’s no matter, my eyes are used to the dark now, I can just nibble on these crackers and spin around in my wheel. I don’t need you to check on me, I’m just fine, I’ve got everything I need right here.

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The temperature breached just over fifty degrees today and I thought of you, not in a direct way, not of your face or your hands or the way you used to hold me– but instead, the way the sun felt splashing across my face riding in your car, and the smell of the air as we rushed over the bridge with the windows down. Driving with nowhere to go and everywhere ahead of us. It wasn’t until much later in the night that I felt my heart sink, sipping on a hot toddy in a loud bar with atrocious music and people who looked unattractively young. Reality seems much less tangible in this new world without you and a lot more lonely. We are all stuck inside of ourselves in an unfortunate pairing, it is a greater challenge to reach for our own hand to hold instead of another.

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I can’t help but want to listen to Opus III’s It’s a Fine Day looking through these pictures from last night. After another short rest/teeth brushing session at my little Bushwick apartment I was coerced out into the cold night all the way to the meatpacking district, once again, to meet up with Djuna Bell and Sydney Reising at The Rusty Knot on the loud windy streets of the West side highway. I sat with my headphones in on the train, listening to The Hobbit’s soundtrack trying to convince myself that going out yet again was a good idea. I worked all day and hadn’t eaten much, but that’s pretty normal for fashion week in New York. Parties start around five, and then they just keep going, on and on and on. Everyone’s complaining and lamenting how they wish it was over but deep down this is the essence of fashion week culture. Partying becomes some sort of a job that you have to do, and you kind of hate it, but everyone is hating it together.

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I am updating this post from my phone as I haven’t been home for more than an hour since Wednesday, and only then, to shower, straighten or curl my hair, and change clothes. I kicked off my fashion week at Milk Studios being locked in the equipment room with person on staff for seven minutes in heaven. As the member of the opposite sex was not much bigger than myself and considerably younger and softer than most of the men I end up kissing, it felt a lot like the time I made out with the lovely Swedish woman on the rooftop of the Standard hotel– Only the location was much less scenic and it felt a lot better emotionally than kissing a man’s wife in front of him.

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