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July 17, 2009

I love a cheap thrill. When I was little, I would twirl and twirl and twirl until I couldn’t twirl anymore. Then I’d drop to the ground and wait for the world to stop spinning. As soon as the nausea passed, I’d get up and do it again. (In retrospect, this foreshadows later experiments with certain adult substances….) That dress was made for spinning, and those MoMA floors are so smooth and slick. I couldn’t resist. The fun came to its inevitable end when a guard, who was laughing — kindly — at me, said, “Nah, miss, you can’t do that sort of thing here.”  I smiled woozily and stumbled on my way.

I love a cheap thrill.

When I was little, I would twirl and twirl and twirl until I couldn’t twirl anymore. Then I’d drop to the ground and wait for the world to stop spinning. As soon as the nausea passed, I’d get up and do it again. (In retrospect, this foreshadows later experiments with certain adult substances….)

That dress was made for spinning, and those MoMA floors are so smooth and slick. I couldn’t resist.

The fun came to its inevitable end when a guard, who was laughing — kindly — at me, said, “Nah, miss, you can’t do that sort of thing here.”  I smiled woozily and stumbled on my way.

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