NewYorkCity

My stare fixed dismally on the ceaseless rainfall as unlucky pedestrians without umbrellas scuttled the streets.

I took another bite of my Boca burger disregarding a William Faulkner book on my lap which contributed to my dreary thoughts. What was the alternative? Would I rather be with my friends standing in line, in the rain, the entire night, banking on the slight possibility of obtaining tickets to Saturday Night Live show? Not really.

Those of us not standing in the rain were ogling stupidly at our computer screens accomplishing absolutely nothing. I couldn’t decide which was more unprofitable.

Maybe McCain would win the nomination and I’d lament not shaking his hand forever, but so far I planned on losing no sleep over my nerdy decision to stay back and read Faulkner. And call me a sour grape, but Steve Carell is not hot.

I didn’t mention the small minority of girls clustered around a minuscule laptop uttering hideous screeching sounds at The Office, all of which I pretended to ignore. They had the nerve to invade my apartment and bring with them those nasty little cherry m&m’s, which are a shame to the complete m&m industry.

In the end I went to Star bucks and sipped a chai tea latte like a snooty little New Yorker, but I didn’t quite pull it off with the flip flop fashion, even if they were Chaco’s. They weren’t five inch heels with wicked witch tips, or baby doll ballerina shoes which tend to fill with polluted water every time you step in a puddle.

Here you are, but take your Chacos and find the Beverly Hillbillies of New York City. We’ll all be happier if you and your little hick shoes find somewhere else to go.