day 1

For my birthday, my brother bought me a plane ticket to New York City. Seeing as how I happen to find New York City about as pleasant as a plague of locusts at a dinner party, this might at first glance seem to be a gag gift bordering on the malicious. However, my beloved K, my CFF, the gentleman and scholar who is my favorite person in the entire universe, having surpassed even Stephen Fry and Neil deGrasse Tyson (the nail in their coffin was when K gifted me with a pair of socks bearing a songbird pattern and the words "Pimpin Ain't Easy)... this freewheeling man-about-town has of late transferred his residence yet again, and now bases his nefarious operations where else but in the introvert-paralyzing, subway-redolent, admittedly-adorable-dog-jam-packed borough of Manhattan.

Aw, dammit.

So I went to New York City for a couple of weeks. Let's start that story now.

We went to Chelsea Market for lunch today, having, as usual, slept through any hour that could reasonably be called breakfast. Chelsea Market is currently decorated for Halloween. A waterfall of blood pours down one wall, which is almost certainly a health code violation. Deformed infants pop from carriages with tinny wails, observed by lackadaisical children who probably saw scarier stuff on the subway ride over. Cobwebs dangle, threatening to drop into cups of gelato and artisanal sandwiches. We ate "Japanese-inspired Mexican" at Takumi. Whoever received this inspiration was probably quite high on a number of cool drugs, but I can't complain about the food, because it was a burrito that contained edamame, and who the hell am I to complain about something like that?

K abandoned me to go to work and make them fat staxx. I was left alone, full of burrito, confused, lost, purposeless except for one burning, singular motive - I knew I had to find somewhere to buy toilet paper, because at the apartment, we were all out.

Here is something fun about grocery shopping in Manhattan: it is the worst experience ever and you should never do it, you should just starve and die and go away. I ended up buying toilet paper, paper towels (cleanliness!) and a two-pack of toothbrushes (value!) at a CVS, paying double what I'd have paid at the Trader Joe's in Chelsea for the breathtaking luxury of not having to stand in a line that wound LITERALLY TWO THIRDS OF THE WAY AROUND THE STORE, YOU GUYS. IT'S OUT OF CONTROL. THIS WAS AT 3:00 PM ON A WEEKDAY. SORRY FOR THE FULL CAPS, BUT COME ON, THAT'S JUST OUTRAGEOUS, WOULDN'T YOU AGREE?

The act of obtaining personal necessities robbed me of all my remaining strength and energy. I returned back to K's swank, albeit sterile, high-rise corporate housing (permanent lodging TBD, will probably be less schmancy, but considerably more personable, god willing) to complain about everything to all of you people, and drink the beer that I bought at this store that reminded me of Madison Market on cocaine. This beer is called "Raging Bitch," which is why I bought it. Here in Manhattan, I am a quietly raging bitch, going about my day seething on the inside in a powerfully West Coast style that no one here understands.