I came to New York four years ago hoping to meet interesting sick people (check) and interesting not-so-sick people (I’ve met a few). If you’re the former, we probably shouldn’t be meeting here and maybe you should call an ambulance? That’s what I’d do.
If you’re the latter, neat! Let’s get coffee and tell stories.
After a few years traveling through Arizona and Florida and way more hanging around the horse farm, I decided that it was time to move to New York. While the rest of my class was being handed diplomas in Phoenix, I was discussing heavily-medicated schizophrenics on Third Avenue. I got mine in the mail.
The diploma, that is, not the schizophrenic.
Because I'm pretty sure it's illegal to mail schizophrenics.
When I’m on the road, my old Gibson J-50 acoustic Maybelleine rides shotgun; the backseat is filled with Nikon lenses, juggling equipment, old books on mythology and stars and magic realism, letters from friends I try to visit on my cross-country drives. I listen to shoegazer nonstop, and sing loudly and badly in the car when the music runs out.
I am easily amused, overcaffeinated, and needlestick-prone