Happy Monday, folks. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a better week, despite the solar system's personal vendetta against me.
Though that angry red planet is spinning furiously backwards and is determined to fuck up my world, I have the faith of a child in the tooth fairy that this week's gonna be better. If not, I'm blaming it on all of you.
Unfortunately, Monday is already off to a sorta crappy start...the city, which was so crisp and chilly and hopeful last week, with trees already starting to show hints of beautiful autumn colors, is back to sticky and gummy and warm and stinking like a bum's dirty hiney. Damn.
One of the loveliest things about fall in New York is that the stink of summer fades clean away when the air turns cool. Everything feels fresh, and there's a renewed hope and excitement in the air. So you can imagine my dismay when I climbed up from the bowels of the Union Square subway station only to meet with the stink of 100 dead hookers with vaginal infections, which lasted the better part of six blocks. Guess we have to wait another week for the freshmaker to return. September is a weird month. Hot, cold, fall, summer, make up your fucking mind! Jesus.
Anyway, I am not so easily discouraged. There are a million reasons I love fall in New York. For one thing, it's a great time to be in love. I look forward to holding hands in Central Park, cuddling up in a cafe with a hot spiced cider, watching the tourists flit up and down 5th Avenue looking for Trump Fucking Tower. It's the beginning of a very happy season here in my fair, fair city. People are just nicer to each other when they aren't sweating their balls off and having to endure the smell of three months worth of garbage piling up in the streets.
I'm putting on a happy face. I'd appreciate a little support, for once.
The Blizzard of '17
4 days ago