Procrastination.
For fear of not writing it well, I have woefully procrastinated beginning this blog.
Its purpose: to document my summer in New York City, as well as collect insight

and tips (wisdom) from those around me whom I admire.
The first comes from my father who told me: "don't be perfect, just be present."
So here I go, imperfectly present, atop my green, fern printed bedspread. Let the blog begin.


I've been in The City for three days.


Wednesday was an intern meeting for Open Road Media, the first of my two internships.

There are 25 of us interns. Everyone is Jewish. I'm not sure why that is.

Jane Friedman hugged and kissed me, to my surprise
and everyone else's. I’ve been assigned to read a book called Genius.


Thursday, interview at Inkwell Management, the second internship. I sat nervously in the waiting room,

while my hands clammed mercilessly. Clammy hands are an awful ailment. Unpleasantly warm, sticky,

and damp hands must be off-putting, especially when asking a complete stranger to shake them.

I kept rubbing my hands on the suede armchairs, like big absorbent pads. The secretary watched.


Yesterday I accompanied my Grandmother Betsy to the doctor, I watched her echo, and felt exhausted

on behalf of her heart for its ceaseless pumping.

On the walk home, Betsy bought a chocolate sorbet ice cream cone and I fell in love with a long, regal, Oscar de la Renta skirt in a shop window.

We went to my cousin Pavan’s end-of-school party in Central Park.

A 5-year-old girl lost her cookies, literally, right beside me as I took my first bite of vegetarian chili.

It made me regret not buying my other options at the deli, neither of which so closely resembled her vomit.


Betsy’s tip of the day was: “don’t wear casual shorts in midtown.”

She told me this as we exited the apartment elevator.