the perfect weekend (surprisingly, unexpectedly, quietly so)

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It is always, without fail, the weekends that you have not one expectation of, that bloom the most exquisitely.


I came home from work on Friday bone-tired and a little worn down. Little did I know that my Friday night would end with karaoke in Koreatown at some ungodly hour--as the strangest and most exciting nights in New York City always do.


(Of this there are no pictures, and let us all give thanks for that).


Saturday was spent at the Rockaways with Sam (with whom there is never enough time-- she lives too far and the occasional conversations do not suffice). We lazed on the beach, narrowly avoided seagull poop, talked as only two women in their twenties can, ate well and cheaply (as Hemingway would say), and patiently supported each other's photography endeavors.


And of course, Sunday, the loneliest day of the week, wasn't so lonely at all. It was filled with a quiet afternoon of eating and strolling and browsing. Books and candles and the first cappuccino in New York (or so the caffe claims).


The whole thing was the perfect balance between the ridiculous and the sublime. And I feel better and fuller and more  myself because of it.


As for whether or not it makes me any more ready to take on the week... well...


...maybe less so.


But let's give it a go anyway...


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