The end of August in NYC means the air is thick and redolent of warmed garbage. Everyone is surly, including myself. I have to go to midtown in two days and I’m pre-grouchy about it. There is nothing good in midtown, unless you’re going to fashion school shortly and need to pick up sewing supplies and want your mom to come help you. In that case I suppose there’s some good stuff. And if my baby needs my help, damn it, off I go. Even though it’s absurdly hot and humid and smells like someone’s been sneaking out at night and drizzling sour milk into the gutters.
Hot town, chicken in the city
Hot town, chicken in the city
Hot town, chicken in the city
The end of August in NYC means the air is thick and redolent of warmed garbage. Everyone is surly, including myself. I have to go to midtown in two days and I’m pre-grouchy about it. There is nothing good in midtown, unless you’re going to fashion school shortly and need to pick up sewing supplies and want your mom to come help you. In that case I suppose there’s some good stuff. And if my baby needs my help, damn it, off I go. Even though it’s absurdly hot and humid and smells like someone’s been sneaking out at night and drizzling sour milk into the gutters.