I look over the shoulder of the bearded boy next to me, scribbling in his moleskein notebook. I see the words, "life" and "hate" and "imagine" and I remember being young and disdainful of money. I think of my beardy ex-boyfriend. He just won some kind of a fancy grant.
It was a long day. An early day featuring plumbers and a kidney bean-shaped coffee table and a 16-year-old girl from LA who asked me where kids her age hung out in New York. I made something up because, after all, how would I know?
Today I schlepped a drawing worth tens of thousands of dollars on a city bus. Because I could. Because it was practically door to door service. Because it was free. Because I don't think I should treat a drawing better than I treat myself. If the bus is good enough for me, it's good enough for an overpriced Dzama.
Am I becoming a hater? Sometimes I feel like the kind of person to which the "Mean People Suck" bumper stickers are referring.