november and november and november …
usually november is one of those months where depression claims me, like february. by “usually” i mean “habitually,” at least here. the past three years i’ve gotten beaten down by november, by assassins or paranoia or plain old american malaise.
come to think of it, novembers in high skool were never too hot. one november i fought with my best friend on and off and passionately all month, culminating in a letter that went on longer than the month itself that i wrote over thanksgiving weekend at my cousins’ house in westchester.
another november — november 19th, to be exact — i asked out a male friend of mine over the phone. he laughed and said no. later, when he realized i hadn’t been joking, he apologized to me, chagrined.
yeah, november. up to no good.
the weather hints otherwise, to the point where i’m not sure what to believe. the store i wanted to go to today was closed. the movie i saw was mediocre. i missed my train by three minutes. the next movie i saw was mediocre too. none of it made me sad, though, ameoliorated as it was by company, the afore-mentioned weather, and frank o’hara’s lunch poems.
the smartest course of action seems to be, Stay low, don’t try anything risky, don’t play assassins, don’t give in to the feeling that your friends have stopped liking you, and enjoy the unseasonable warmth.