All these trains you put me on, they move too slow.

So Saturday was one of those incredibly frustrating NYC days. I know my fellow NYC peeps are feelin’ me—we all have them now and then. You know, those days where everything is about 100 times more difficult than it needs to be, simply by virtue of the fact that this is NYC, baby. Love it. What can I say, those days totally suck. When they happen, they make you want to just throw your hands up and say fuck it, why the fuck am I doing this to myself, anyway? That’s it. I’m moving. Alaska, here I come. Saskatchewan, you’ve never sounded better. Bullet to the brain? Oh yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Sweet, sweet release.

Ok, so maybe it’s not all that bad, but as any New Yorker will tell you we’ve been in the midst of one of those unfortunate periods where you pretty much can’t get anywhere on the weekends. That’s right kids, this city exists to serve the hordes Monday-Friday, but come the weekends, sometimes things just kind of shut down. Seriously. Saturday morning I needed to get somewhere, and a trip that should have taken all of fifteen minutes took more than an hour. Coming home was more of the same, and on top of that I was starving, sweaty, and cranky, which as most anyone will tell you, does not a happy P/O make. And as the ordeal stretched on, I had one of those moments of clarity in which I realized why I do not carry a gun or weapon of any kind: because if I did, I would quickly and without thinking cross the line from seething, quiet, crazy man to raging homicidal maniac. And that would be sad. (A certain drone should note that, upon surviving another particularly hellish commute this morning, my hatred of the subway has been kindled anew into a particularly frightful, destructive blaze.)

So when I finally made it home I went for a run in an effort to release some of that pent-up fury, and then had to quickly pretty myself up for the party of a friend-of-a-friend that happened to be taking place in the insanely luxurious penthouse of a midtown boutique hotel. And my god, what a place it was. Much more Sex and the City than my typical Friends-like existence. And as I stood out on one of the several terraces that was bigger than my entire apartment, gazing across the dark expanse of the entire length of Central Park from south to north, watching the distant fireworks happening at what I assumed was Yankee Stadium...I remembered that I love it here.