It is the middle of the night. It is almost 2am. It is dark. It is dark outside, and it is dark inside. I am in my pajamas. I am in my bed. My bed is a pull-out couch. My hair is in a ponytail. The covers are twisted, and I can’t find the sheet. The only light is coming from my computer screen, and the crack underneath the door. My left shoulder hurts. This happens when I have been having too many asthma attacks. THIS happens when I don’t have medical insurance to get Singulair. My toenails are red, and my fingernails are red. It is quiet. The only noise is coming from my fingers typing. I am cross-legged. I am slumped forward. I am not alone in my bed. I am sharing it with my cell phone, my big red leather bag, my inhaler, a book called “The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters,” two pillows, and a Princeton sweatshirt. I should turn on a lamp. But why? I am thinking about something very personal. I’m not going to tell you what. My left foot is asleep. Now if only my whole self would follow.

This afternoon, I walked from Beacon Hill to the Back Bay, and then over to Cambridge to explore Harvard, and finally, back to Beacon Hill. It was about an 8-mile walk, and it felt good to stretch my legs after, you know, quitting exercise this fall. Boston is beautiful, and if I wasn’t so set on Nashville, I would seriously consider moving here.

Sadly, I did not spot any “Harvard Hotties” in Cambridge. In fact, I realized that a significant part of the Harvard population is made up of college freshman – and I just can’t “go young.” I walked around the campus for awhile, but eventually was intimidated by the electricity of brain waves in the air, so I bought myself a coffee and left.

Christina took me to Pizzeria Regina in the North End for dinner, which is billed as being the “World’s! Best! Pizza!” We were not disappointed. They even gave us our Sangiovese in big tumblers.

We ended our night by watching “The Departed,” with a Boston mob history lesson from Dan, Christina’s husband. It was the best kind of day: walking for miles and miles, only to eat well in the evening, and watch some serious Scorsese carnage.

Boston, my booty – and my belly – thank you.

1) The sound of nails on a chalkboard evokes an immediate reflexive response in me: I instantly, and without thinking, put my fingertips in my mouth. It might make more sense to cover my ears, but you can’t argue with “natural tendency.” It must be evolution.

2) I am a consolidator. I cannot stand to have two half-empty bottles of the same thing, whether it be soy sauce or face wash or peanut butter. I will mix them together into one substance, and discard the empty vessel. Unless it’s a pretty glass jar. Then I will save it for something special, like someday when there’s a boy who gives me flowers. I’ll be ready. With my jar.

3) My least favorite serving dish is the olive boat. It makes me uncomfortable to casually pass around a dish in that shape. Am I incredibly juvenile? Probably. I can’t sing “where ox and ass are feeding” in church without snickering, either.

4) I check Seattle/Nashville Craigslist EVERY DAY for the following items: apartments, jobs, Mazda 3’s, elliptical trainers, Missed Connections. It does not matter that I don’t live in either of these places anymore/yet. It does not matter that I don’t have the money nor the need for a new car. It does not matter that I will not sign a lease for an apartment until I’ve seen it in person. It does not matter that I don’t have a home to put a mammoth item like an elliptical in. I like to keep my finger on the pulse of my cities.

And no. No one is looking for me on Missed Connections.

5) I vacillate between pursuing a career that I am passionate about, and pursuing a career that will provide me with the lifestyle that I want (which really means the ability to finance a wardrobe from Anthropologie and a hot yoga habit). And deep down, I’m afraid that I’m incapable of either.

6) I made up a word with the sole purpose of describing Sufjan Stevens’ music: “changley.” Too much changle. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, just listen to the one that goes, “Changl-ey, chaaaan – gaaaall – eeey / All things go, all things go.”

7) My favorite scene in movies is that point just past halfway where there’s some upbeat song playing, and all of the characters are progressing and growing and changing. No dialogue – just a montage of forward movement that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and makes me want to go run a marathon or learn how to cook a turkey or something.

If you have a blog, I think that you should do a similar entry to this: seven things. I’d love to know some underground, non-obvious facts about my friends!

“I mean, how ironic is this: I’m a ROOFER, and I got SHINGLES.”

Pure poetry.

I am convinced that the loneliest feeling in the world is walking through the streets of New York on a Sunday morning all by one’s self, pulling over 100 lbs. of luggage, and having to navigate the stairs down into the subway. Oh, and then to eject said self from the train straight back up the stairs into Chinatown, and lug one’s belongings like a pack mule, searching for the Fung Wah bus to Boston – which, by the way, provides no guarantee that it will make it to Boston without exploding on the freeway or blowing a tire. A regular occurrence, I’m told.

Thus began my morning.

When I finally arrived at the ticket window, my hands were blistered from pulling my bags, and I could scarcely sign my name on the form for my shaking extremities. I loaded my suitcases onto the bus, and boarded.

This is where I realized that God never wastes anything. Thinking back to September, my sister’s dog Gabe barfed on the backseat of my car, and I almost barfed right on top of it. I now know that that unsavory event was simply in preparation for the smell on-board the Fung Wah. It was as if the good Lord gave me an early, preparatory dosage of repulsive stench to ready and steady me for today’s odor.

Luckily, I secured a window seat, and wound up sitting behind two teenage kids who were sharing one set of iPod earbuds and a box of Frosted Flakes. Note to self: do not chew dry cereal in public. The crunch very well could earn you a good throttling.

The hoodlum behind me failed to silence the obnoxious ringer on his cell phone, and talked continuously to his various homies. “Yo, dawg, what up? Ah, I’m on the bus. You know how it is.” Sir? Do they, really?

We embarked on what can only be described as a terrifying journey in a glorified sardine can, hurtling across New England. But how can I complain? For $15 and in just 4 hours, it got me where I was going: Boston, to Christina’s Beacon Hill apartment, with exposed brick walls, and wine and cheese and olives waiting on the table.

More about the end of my New York adventure tomorrow. Until then, Boston beckons.

My name is Annie Parsons, and this is the longest day of my life.

I am finally home after a 2 1/2 hour subway adventure, trying to make my way home to Heidi’s. I left my friends Sarah and Alex’s place at 11:15, and thought, “I can make it back – no problem.” I would have, too, if the train didn’t straight up STOP RUNNING. Everybody off. No more service. This train is returning to Queens.

Luckily, I was saved by this man, who I followed like a little lost puppy to a bus. He graciously gave me directions to where I needed to go. In return, I told him how to find my blog (shameless advertising to strangers in New York). So if he finds it, HI KEITH!

Other than the long journey home tonight, my day was filled with friends, and food, and enough walking to bore a remarkable hole in each heel. It will be a miracle if I make it to Boston still standing.

Holy gigantic city.

I suddenly feel the need to type like a 13-year old girl. OMG – NYC is like, sooooooo khool!!!

This morning, Heidi left early for work, leaving me on my own to navigate my way from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Armed with nothing but a little map and a few notes she had left me with important intersections and subway transfers, I set out to conquer the City.

On the elevator ride down from Heidi’s apartment, a small, balding, greasy character stepped in. I could feel him staring at me, so I stared at the floor. But curiosity got the better of me, so I lowered my eyelids in a slow blink, and when I opened them again, I was looking straight at him.

“Hi Jen,” he said.

“I’m not Jen,” I replied.

“You’re not? But I wrote you a letter and slipped it under your door last night.”

“Oh. I’m not Jen.”

Long, long silence. Long, long elevator ride. I decided to ease the tension with a question.

“How long have you lived in the building?”

He got very excited. “Since 1995. That’s 12 years.” That’s right, Trigger. “And if you put 12 over 100, that reduces to 3 over 25.”

I calculated in my head, and determined, “Yeah, that’s right. Wow – you’re fast.”

“I know. It’s what I do – I reduce fractions. I can do it more quickly than anyone else I know.”

Once again, I attract these people. I’m kind of glad that I do – my life might be boring, otherwise. I would have to pick up some weird hobby, like squash or, God forbid, rubber stamping.

Today was so great. I grinned for the first two hours or so, shielded from the cold by my puffy jacket and boots, walking and walking and walking. My knee held up just fine – save the trips up and down the stairs to the subway. I’m out of Band-Aids, so… we’ll see how it looks tomorrow. Right now, it just feels hot. If I get gangrene and die, please donate my organs.

To be honest – and honestly vain – I was nervous about the whole “fashion” issue of New York. I don’t own anything “in” enough to wear here – or so I thought. It turns out that I had a false image of New York – one fueled by images of Paris and Nicole and LiLo. The actuality is that people where whatever the hell they want, from a coat with jeans to a sari with a hoodie. And after experiencing today’s frigid air, I didn’t care what I was wearing, so long as it included gloves.

Times Square is like Disneyland on steroids. An absolute assault on the senses, I am happy that I saw it… once. I don’t really feel the need to see it again, unless, of course, it included another trip to “The Lion King.”

I had the most awesome seat for the matinee show, probably because my request was, “Just one. Yes, I’m here alone. Because I’m single – probably forever. It’s okay though – cheaper Broadway tickets, this way.” And from the opening lines of “The Circle of Life,” I was this emotional puddle. I cried and cried – the entire production was SO BEAUTIFUL. I do not have words for it, so I will not even try. The only thing I can say is that there is something so incredible about seeing people doing what they were meant to do – and this entire production was done so well. If you ever get a chance, please go see this show.

Heidi and I met up with my buddy from high school, Reid, and his friend Zachary, for dinner. We ate delicious Thai food in Greenwich Village, and then went to the Dessert Truck for $5 desserts. Reid got a hot chocolate that was basically liquid hot fudge, and after one sip, I think I could be satisfied for the rest of my life.

After hours of travel yesterday, and even more hours of travel today, I disembarked the plane, gathered my luggage, walked through the sliding glass doors, victoriously breathed in the air… and promptly tripped. Fell on my face, deeply skinning both knees and tearing my new jeans.

Welcome to New York.

My left knee is especially bad – a huge goose egg of a welt threatening to burst through my pants, and a deep cut that almost caused me to bleed to death on the hour-long subway ride from the airport. Maybe I’m a sissy, but it hurts. It hurts to walk, it hurts to bend, it hurts to lower my body down into a chair. Luckily, my sweet friend Heidi provided me with Neosporin, a huge bandage, and an icepack, and I have been able to pick the cotton scraps and gravel from the wound. We’ll see if I’m recovered enough to take the City by foot tomorrow.

First stop: “The Lion King.” Naaaaaa – sa – bwen – yaaaaahhh!!!

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I don’t know what happened.  As a general rule, I am responsible and thorough and “together.”  But I misread our itinerary, and what I thought was a 5:50am flight was actually a 5:20am flight.  And this morning, thanks to my negligence, my dad and I missed our plane.