and this, this is life.

It’s hard to think too highly of yourself when you’re the kind of person who manages to hit yourself in the head with a ukulele while strolling down 8th Avenue. Though, the word stroll might be misleading. I walk fast in New York. I don’t know why, but I try to pass just about everyone. Maybe it’s because my legs are six feet long or something. Or maybe it’s my latent sense of competition that never got exercised because my parents’ didn’t put me in sports.

But yep.

I totally hit myself in the head with my ukulele yesterday. Don’t even ask how I managed it, because I don’t really remember–I only definitely remember that it happened. And then I had to text my friend about it, because that kind of thing is just too good to keep to yourself.

And I just might have gone on a date. With my ukulele. Wait a second, that’s confusing. I hung out with someone I haven’t seen in years while I was still holding my ukulele. I didn’t, like, take my uke out to dinner. Though it is adorable and does smell good–two things that are not so bad in terms of qualities in a date, I guess. But I found the fact that I was meeting a guy with ukulele in hand a little funny. So I texted that same friend (who, graciously, doesn’t seem to mind getting play-by-plays from me, God bless him) that it’s kind of embarrassing to be holding a small, obscure instrument on a date. Which he seemed to think could indicate that I am in the mob, and that I should tell him this through song. Naturally.

Just perfect. Because, really, who doesn’t want to date a divorced traveling minstrel who may or may not have close ties to the mob?

Oh man. Life is funny and good and weird and, really, I don’t understand the people who take everything so seriously. I guess those are the people who have never hit themselves in the head with a ukulele or something.

Must be nice.