Galería de Alix Lynx

The Rockefeller tree rolled into town this morning and I swore I'd be front row for it — instead I'm still at the closet in nothing but a robe, arguing with myself over a sweater. Talk me into getting dressed. Or don't.

Wide awake, and the sheets aren't exactly helping me settle down. Come talk me back to sleep?

Comedy Festival opens tonight and I'm getting ready for opening night — the dress made it on, the zipper is losing the argument. Tell me you'd be my date in the dark.

The Bryant Park rink opens tomorrow and I clearly couldn't wait — skates are laced, skirt's doing its best, and I'm practicing my glide across my own floor. Who's catching me when I fall out there?

The Rockettes open tomorrow and the sparkle dress is already picked out — now I just need someone to take me. Any volunteers?

Spent marathon day screaming for strangers on the course and now my legs are convinced I ran all 26 miles myself. Recovery mode is officially on. Tell me you'd help me stretch it out.

Anyone in costume gets to march in the Village parade tonight, so obviously I'm in — the corset is only half-laced and the horns are already crooked. Come be my extra pair of hands before line-up?

Halloween eve and the costume this year is body paint — every brushstroke goes straight onto bare skin, and the bathroom mirror says it's working. Tell me you'd volunteer to finish the spots I can't reach.

Still hearing the last set from the Vanguard in my head — and somehow the dress was the first thing to go. Tell me you'd keep the night going.

Glue gun's hot, candy bowl's stocked, and half my floor has disappeared under Trick-or-Streets prep — the city may be closing 180 streets but my living room is the real block party. The hem situation back here is getting out of hand. Come finish the last goodie bag with me?