Story idea where two friends wander the college grounds from the 5th year reunion to the 10th year reunion to the 15th and 25th and 45th and 50th for the free booze, only to see how their lives will turn out in an alcoholic, Cheever-esque, college-years “Christmas Carol.” Free Snapple is involved.
Story idea where a girl spends her morning at the Marriage bureau and the evening at a five year reunion where a pregnant Orthodox jew wanders around her table, and she remembers the engagement party in SoHo, throwing up on the street, waiting for the F-train and a silly boy who lost his keys. Something is realized about relationships, the speed of time, people who move too quickly and those who seem so stuck they cannot push open their own doors.
Story idea where all the rest-stops on 95 between New Haven and Washington remind a girl of past trips down the corridor, wherein the lives of the historical figures for which the stops are named — Vince Lombardi, Clara Barton — become significant within the memories, for wasn’t Clara Barton that nurse who healed everyone, and that was where they used to go get Cinnabons.
Story idea where a girl and a guy who were self-aware, over-educated undergraduates have a pizza discussion about how if they had gone out — which wouldn’t have happened — they’d just have had one of those seven-year live-in relationships with IKEA trips and bad vibes, and one moving across the country for the other, and a cat named for a dead aunt, and potted plants, and not enough money between them for the dry-cleaning, and a break-up in a quiet Mexican restaurant where they would try to keep their voices down, because they’re both so boring and especially so boring together that they can’t bear to make a scene or a choice, couldn’t bear to make a choice then or, especially, now.
Story idea wherein I’m listening to “Call Me Maybe” or “212” and thinking about how happiness is tied to nonchalance, how desire’s twinsy friend is the confident bitch. They say 27 is the best year. I don’t know. But I have a red BMW with an oversized sunroof and a tape-deck, and I don’t want to talk to another human for 31 days. Maybe. I’ll probably be bored by Sunday.
