The bank teller at the local branch is absolutely gorgeous, and every time I drop in I want to flirt or make a witty joke or seem like a romantically desirable potential male counterpart... but then I stop because I remember that she can see exactly how poor I am.
As I continue to blog about my lack of internet access (irony!!), my dependance on Starbucks is reaching frightening new levels. I've been on the lookout for other free wifi outlets that I can use in the evenings, but most places also have at least one drawback. McDonald's doesn't offer electric outlets, Bryant Park isn't sunny at 10:30pm, the closest independent coffee shop closes at 7, and people call the cops when you stand outside of their window and mooch internet.
Tonight, I passed a bar that advertised free wifi and drink specials. I'm seriously considering it. Sure, I'd be the sketchy looking dude rocking a 7-year-old laptop at a bar by himself, but this is New York City. There are 8 million people here and I can afford to put off quite a few of them.
When going online is a chore, giving out my email address is a pretty useless gesture. My poor response time will most definitely lead to hurt feelings and possible reprisal via mocha lattes thrown at my head. Yet I cannot shake the growing terror I feel when I remember that the parents of all 21 of my campers have my cell phone number now.
Fun note! I learned recently that haiku is composed of moras and not necessarily syllables. I do not understand moras, but if you took any of these haiku seriously, then shame on you. And, also, thanks.
Um... actually I don't have much to say here. You were simply all kinds of adequate that one time that I took you. I suppose I will miss the disappointment of seeing you rounding the corner and not being a Q train, N train, or even an R. You ran to my school and to... well, nowhere else that I ever needed to go. Sure, you could get me to Times Square, but so could the 1, 2, 3, A, C, E, N, R, Q, S, and 7. I've actually even walked to 42nd Street and beyond from West 3rd Street (several times), so it's hard to say that you were worth the $2.25. While the N and Q often got the new rail cars, the cars on your local W runs often looked like poorly-lit crime scenes. When I found out that your service was being cut, I couldn't believe it--though only because it proved that the MTA actually does do things sometimes. I figured that they just deliberated a lot.
So therefore, dear W train, as you noisily approach that light at the end of the tunnel [Ed. note: Sorry, I couldn't help myself], I will leave you with a positive to take back with you to the rail yards. While you were certainly among the unsexiest of subway lines, you were not the late night G train--and you'll always have that.
I'm hitting up Starbucks more often than usual (you should be concerned) because the internet in my sublet is missing. If you find it, please return it to... wherever it is that I live. I keep forgetting that I have no idea what my current address is. The post office has no idea either.
In the meantime, my entries here will be sporadic as well as unfocused. Actually, this is probably not a new development. Inspire confidence this post doth not.