New York I love you, but you’re freaking me out. The other day, I was walking down Houston (cause I don’t go above 14th Street), and some homeless hot mess was selling the contents of someone’s purse on a sheet on the sidewalk. Pretty much they were selling some bitch’s eye makeup and contact lens case. “Pink Eye! Pink Eye! Five Dolla! Five Dolla!”
Now, if there’s anything that makes me happy, it’s a garage sale. Hell to the yes. Before I moved to NY, I sold almost everything in my college apartment, and a six year old boy that was dressed like Alex P. Keaton walked up to me, handed me a pamphlet, and asked, “Would you like a letter from God?” Adorable. I almost became a Jehovah’s Witness. If my son doesn’t look like a miniature Alex P. Keaton, I’m sending him back.
I have five older sisters, and when I go home to visit—it’s like, “Where’s my knock-off purse, Boy?” I open my suitcase. “I didn’t want Kate Spade…I wanted Coach!” I am then slapped and sent to the kids table.
When I walk down Canal Street—its like Sweet Charity. I’m famous.
“Hey, Big Spender. I know you. You wanna come into the back of my van….”
“Hey, Big Spender. I give you good rate. I give you good rate…”
“Hey, Big Spender. Your sister’s will love you long time…”
1 comment:
I will have you know that it is way beyond the time to have another garage sale. Monica is storing it all for me. I think you should fly in. Maybe we'll get another letter from God.
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