nothing beats a stream of consciousness fueled by a muscle milk. nothing.
neither does sporting a biker shorts/tank top combo in front of a window that allows the entire south side of the facing building to observe one's progressive fashion antics en masse.
so just to recap the day: it was nice out, sunny and vibrant, which for any location below 14th street, means the mean queens in ripped jeans strut their tiny asses in gladiator sandals and sunglasses so dark they think they're making a fashion statement but can't see clearly enough to actually take notice. and you don't look at these queens, oh no. that's the surest way to spending the rest of eternity cast in concrete, for their icy stares take you straight to stone. a leisurely stroll around soho finds itself soured by the cloudy infiltration of the dark force they bring (and boy do they bring it) for they only travel in twos.
i was brazen enough to indulge my craving for a hot dog avec everything on a corner so long as i consoled myself by humming "i am what i am" and imagining how good my post-wiener spearmint wisp would feel preparing my palette for the rest of the afternoon and what/whom would lie in it.
now i feel empowered.
and that, my dear friends, is how a weekend should begin.
xs and os