ohmygodareyoufreakingkiddingme?!

I am not a great writer. I have what my AP English teacher would've called a "gift for the accurate". Yeah, she was a bitch. That said, I do love words and will occassionally write things to myself to work through the complex maze of emotions and delicate intricacies that populate my beautiful soul. Okay, that was for me. Anyway, this writing sometimes takes the form of a very private journal, or random bits of paper that have scrawled musings on them, never, ever, ever (!) offered up for public consumption. That's what blogs are for, thank you very much.

So yesterday, on my way back to New York after a week at home for Christmas, parked at the gate and bored while I waited, I pulled out the print-out of my flight itinerary, flipped to the back, and started my usual work-through. I'd just spent a lovely week with my family, and had started "thinking" (I put it in quotes because sometimes it's actually just feeling, but writing it down asks me to articulate and intellectualize and...learn myself better, if that makes any sense). This piece of paper had some pretty personal information on it: "So-and-so is being impatient about (something)...Am I really incapable of having magic with an Indian man?" and the like. There were also some un-sayable things, things that no one would ever say out loud and I really regret having committed to paper. Then I, thankful that no one would ever read this, folded those pages into my book, and tucked my book into a shopping bag that also contained an apple thrust upon me by my mother and my digital camera in it, and promptly forgot about it.Then I left it in the backseat of the cab bringing me home from the airport. Panicked only by the loss of my camera at first, I reported the lost bag to 311, New York City's helpline or whatever.

Josh was visiting, and he assured me that some people don't suck and someone will find it and return my stuff to me. Ten minutes later, I got a phone call from a guy who found my bag. He lives in Williamsburg, and read my "diary," which he's really sorry about but it was on the flight itinerary that he looked through to find my phone number and he couldn't resist. I would've probably been too mortified to have a conversation with this person, but he has my digital camera with pictures from Chicago and California and Switzerland on it, which I haven't yet loaded onto my computer-- never has the lesson to back up your stuff ever been taught so ungenerously. So I went to Brooklyn to face this man who, as luck would have it, is a unicorn. (Hint: I call attractive Indian men "unicorns". It's not the nicest thing I do. It's not the meanest either, though, so please hold your judgement until you have all the facts.) So anyway, I finally met a unicorn! And he's already seen me naked, pretty much. #$%^*@!!!!!