Errors Corrected
So, I just changed the date on the front page of the website, and I realized that even though this thing is called The Blog of Failed Relationships, all I've written about so far is my wedding, and my cool J-School class, and how good a mood I'm in.
Sorry about that. I'm really quite miserable. Really, I am. I mean, I wrote my cool J-School class story about slavery-- don't I get some depressive cred for that?
Here's a failure story: I just got a new office in a place called Rowhouse Studios, which is a big loft in Old City, Philadelphia. To orient you, the studio is about three blocks from the Real World house.
Last night, D and I decided to get pizza after he picked me up at work at 8 or so. We went to the place on 3rd street, and it was closed. We tried Margharita (it's probably not spelled like that), the place next to the Khyber. Closed. Passed some new joint on Chestnut Street, walked in, and the guy said, "Sorry, folks. We closed." We traveled up Chestnut to Washington Square, hoping to go to El Fuego for burritos. El Fuego was cerrito. No tenememos burritos. (is that the right word? the past perfect form of tener? Incidentally, when I get tipsy, I start trying to speak French and Spanish, sometimes simultaneously. I could probably communicate with a French child under the age of two, or perhaps a severely retarded Spanish speaker, but I doubt the range of my vocabulary is up to any more challenging tasks. Am I the only one who does this, though? The alcoholic attempt to speak a foreign language?) We were hungry by this point, and tired, and so desperate we tried to go to this weird pizza place called Big Tomato Kitchen. Also closed. Finally, in desperation, we stumbled into Moriarty's and collapsed in a booth. D gasped, "Water," in the general direction of the waitress. She obliged. I was sucking on the straw before the glass was out of her hands, pounding an entire pint of lemon-flavored di-hydrogen-oxygenated goodness until I hit the gurgle.
"Menus?" the waitress asked. D and I looked at each other. "Wings," we said simultaneously. They came, and they were good. We left, sated. On the way home, D remembered we needed milk. We tried to pick it up at the grocery store downstairs from the apartment. Guess what? We were too late for that, too.
Sorry about that. I'm really quite miserable. Really, I am. I mean, I wrote my cool J-School class story about slavery-- don't I get some depressive cred for that?
Here's a failure story: I just got a new office in a place called Rowhouse Studios, which is a big loft in Old City, Philadelphia. To orient you, the studio is about three blocks from the Real World house.
Last night, D and I decided to get pizza after he picked me up at work at 8 or so. We went to the place on 3rd street, and it was closed. We tried Margharita (it's probably not spelled like that), the place next to the Khyber. Closed. Passed some new joint on Chestnut Street, walked in, and the guy said, "Sorry, folks. We closed." We traveled up Chestnut to Washington Square, hoping to go to El Fuego for burritos. El Fuego was cerrito. No tenememos burritos. (is that the right word? the past perfect form of tener? Incidentally, when I get tipsy, I start trying to speak French and Spanish, sometimes simultaneously. I could probably communicate with a French child under the age of two, or perhaps a severely retarded Spanish speaker, but I doubt the range of my vocabulary is up to any more challenging tasks. Am I the only one who does this, though? The alcoholic attempt to speak a foreign language?) We were hungry by this point, and tired, and so desperate we tried to go to this weird pizza place called Big Tomato Kitchen. Also closed. Finally, in desperation, we stumbled into Moriarty's and collapsed in a booth. D gasped, "Water," in the general direction of the waitress. She obliged. I was sucking on the straw before the glass was out of her hands, pounding an entire pint of lemon-flavored di-hydrogen-oxygenated goodness until I hit the gurgle.
"Menus?" the waitress asked. D and I looked at each other. "Wings," we said simultaneously. They came, and they were good. We left, sated. On the way home, D remembered we needed milk. We tried to pick it up at the grocery store downstairs from the apartment. Guess what? We were too late for that, too.
posted by meredith at 5:29 PM
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