Don't Tell Mama

So I did make Emerson, and it's fun already. Huzzah for me.

Yesterday I had a Christmas party in SoHo, after which I took it upon myself to roam the streets at sunset. Stranger danger, but what Mama don't know won't never hurt her. (She's already forbidden me to walk Boston Common at night. I said I wouldn't, but the thing is she'd never know if I did.) God knows that's not my territory down there. Plunk me south of 30th Street and I have no idea what I'm doing. It's much more fun that way. After a while I found that I'd wandered to 13th Street. Something made me look up, and there was a boy sitting in a third floor window and playing the guitar. I smiled at him. He waved at me. I waved back. Obviously we're engaged now.

After that I headed over to the Strand where a cashier yelled at me because I didn't know who wrote The Corrections. Well excuse me. I picked up Tropic of Cancer, and reading it is like taking too much Robitussin and then watching all of Alice Ripley's Youtube videos. You know. Like that.