Sitting in a (surprise surprise) Starbucks on the upper west side. Noise. Verbal dust. Another coffee. How many have I consumed over the last 23 years? Well not exactly 23 because about 9 of those years were apple juice cartons and 4 were cans of coke and 3 were bottles of water as I was at the popular anorexic stage. So that totals 7 years of pure caffeine. I'll leave it at that.
There's a magazine on the rack called "Modern Dog". Is the owner supposed to read that to ensure they're dog is as modern as they are...or is the "modern" dog supposed to read it over doggy milk and doggy muffins to get the latest tips on designer collars and the lastest anti-flee spray? To be honest, I'd rather not know the answer to that question.
On my way to this three-billionth Starbucks, I was walking across the Lincoln Square plaza, armored in my shimmering bride-esque raincoat, my red curls (well not exactly curls but wanna-be ones) twirling in the breeze. A perfect Sex and the City portrait. And all the while all I could think was "I want my toothbrush back" from that man. Not because of heartbreak and the idea that if I come pick it up he might take me in his yoga arms and proclaim how much he's missed me. NO. I want it back for the simple reason that at this time I cant AFFORD another pink radius toothbrush like that. SO I deserve custody of the traumatized brush that has refreshed my teeth in this 7 week RELATION-SHIT. Allow me to be spiteful-I've just spent the last hour in the diamond district selling all the gold I own. Its a good time for gold. At least gold is having a good fucking time.