third.

On the third day of Christmas, no one gave me anything, because it was just a Wednesday like any other, but it's also Piroshki Day, so that, at least, was worth getting out of bed for.

I've moved to the International District, Seattle's answer to Chinatown, its PC-er name reflecting its surprisingly low population of residents of actual Chinese descent. English isn't really the minority language here, of course, but it sometimes feels like it is, especially when I'm shopping in Uwajimaya, my friendly neighborhood supermarket. For every snappy young hipster couple debating the merits of different ramen brands, there's a ninety-year-old Japanese lady buying thirty tins of green tea, a Filipino family whose kids are playing tag around the durien display, a gaggle of Korean high schoolers shrieking over a particularly amusing candy... and me, skulking around the canned tomatoes and feeling elongated and uncultured.

In fact, though, being Caucasian doesn't stand out here. I mean, there aren't a ton of Caucasians, but the nice thing about the ID is, nothing stands out here. I've never gotten less attention in any neighborhood, Seattle or otherwise, than I do here. The Witness Protection Plan should send all its... protectees?... to the ID. No one would ever find them, care to find them, or care about them at all.

Having just come off a breakup, I'm deeply a fan of not being noticed. I'm also a fan of the library being a few blocks from my apartment, of the random waterfall that takes up a city block down the street, and of my hardwood floors, though I admit, with embarrassment, that I'm perfectly shitty at taking care of them. I LIKE TO WEAR SHOES INSIDE. SO SUE ME.

Other than hardwood floor concerns, the dry, lizardlike skin I sport whenever the temperature drops below 40F, and occasional insomnia, everything is going fine. As I mentioned above, it's Piroshki Day at Piroshki on 3rd, so I expect a pleasant carb coma later this afternoon, which is always an enjoyable state for me. Those of you with access to calendars may also note the day's close proximity to Christmas, which is both pleasing (cookies!) and stressful (the horrifying, near-paralyzing burden of having to attain thoughtful gifts for a disappointing number of friends and family members!). I'm happy to report, though, that I just found out there's a Christmas ballad called "The Little Boy That Santa Claus Forgot," which is about a kid who is probably an orphan and got nothing for Christmas, and that's the entire song. It's good to know at least SOMEONE is penning tunes about the harsh realities of the Christmas season - namely, that Santa is very old, and his memory is going, and you're probably next on the list of people whose lists he's gonna lose.