It’s been an extraordinary week for fashionable poetry here in sunny new york city! The stickiness has finally subsided & I can wear my thigh-high leather boots again, which is really divine.

At some point I’m going to report on the incredibly fashionable FIRST ANNUAL NEW YORK CITY POETRY FESTIVAL, which was dripping with vintage jewels, shadowed with parasols, covered in red paint, drowning in brooklyn brewery’s lovely light-blue beer cans, & crawling with truly exquisite & decadent whores.

At some point I’m going to report on the lovely ladies of ‘Lectric Collective and the fabulous event they held at Microscope Gallery, which featured so many of my favorites that I thought it was a made-up trap to lure me into a slightly sketchy area of Queens.

But that point is not today. Today, I am hungover, and I want to tell you all about it.

I woke to that specifically butter-colored sunshine that happens only in Brooklyn very early in the morning. It was making very pretty designs on my friend’s super-chic blonde wood floor. I spent the better part of last night and I imagine a good chunk of pre-morning standing/sitting upon that very floor, drinking GnTs in an attempt to fend off malaria and trying to decide whether or not Foucault and Butler could be friends. There was a darling girl in a divine flat-top hat perch’d at a jaunty thirty-degree angle atop her dark hair, which contrasted perfectly with the peach fabric covering both the hat and her body (in the form of a 50s-style tea dress).

I felt compelled to go out into that melty sunshine, so I hopped downstairs and into the nearest bodega, where I purchased the only thing to eat in Brooklyn when one has a hangover, which is a bacon egg and cheese sandwich on a roll and a sizeable container of young coconut water. When the relatively jovial man behind the counter handed me my hot, foil-covered sandwich, I felt as though there were many tiny tin-horns playing polkas directly behind my eyes, which was moderately unpleasant.

As it happens, this particular sandwich was the most aesthetically pleasing breakfast sandwich I have ever consumed. It was a perfect composition of vaguely plasticine crayon-colored cheese, mahogany bacon burnt to a crisp and patted dry, and fluffy, folded egg layered on a cloud-like hard roll. The sandwich wad wrapped first in parchment paper, then cut in half, then wrapped in foil, which is really the only acceptable presentation for such a sandwich.

I ate half of the sandwich while walking down Henry street, smiling stupidly at the trendily-attired passerby and basking in the balmy morning-ness of morning. After a few blocks, I sat on a bench in an adorable little park and ate the other half of the sandwich.

Unfortunately I could not linger indefinitely, as was my desire. I had to come to work, which is where I am at this moment, in a small gray cube surrounded by stacks of princess-themed books. After a brief consideration of the fact that my outfit (white denim hot-pants, rust-colored tank top, coffee-colored crochet minidress, shoulder-grazing white feather earings, aforementioned boots) was completely inappropriate for the office. There was still a small amount of Smashbox gold shimmer on my cheekbones, I had some pink lip gloss in my nude alligator clutch, and my hair looked messy in a sort of styled way. I decided to interpret “casual Friday” very loosely.

Also, I got to take the F train, which is my very favorite train. I got off at the Bryant Park stop for the first time ever. There are Klimt-esque mosaics on the walls and James Joyce quotes, which I enjoyed immensely through my blaringly dull haze.

When I sat down at my desk, I was told to spend the morning reading a book about the beloved summer home of a family of intellectual and fashionable French aristocrats, which was the perfect way to drown out the army of horn players that was now reeling around in the caverns of my very tired brain. I drank many cups of water out of my favorite porcelain tea-cup, which is shaped like a tulip and has a lime and a blue butterfly painted on it. Then I had a very pleasant meeting during which I discussed media training for authors.

I am about to sashay back out into the world for an afternoon of yoga, baking, drinks meetings, and wedding dress construction. Tomorrow, I am getting married to the love of my life. We’ve been together for nearly 23 years. His name is Poetry, and although our relationship is really volatile most of the time, there is no entity I adore more.

I’m listening to a Pandora station based on the songs Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains) and Soft Shock. This song just came on. It is my love song to my husband-to-be.

If you’re in or around New York, consider this your official invitation to our wedding. Tomorrow, 3pm, Governor’s Island. The ferry will ferry you there. It promises to be quite lovely.

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