Champagne Flutes and Teaspoons

Can every day be prosecco and coffee with a faux-collar sweater in New York on a Wednesday with nothing to do?

Give me a life as translucent as this prosciutto I wear as a monocle.

If Tom Waits and I produced a child, he would growl phlegmy giggles from a basinet constructed out of Champagne boxes and hung from bass strings.

I am desiring not of a partner, but rather a playmate to go in on a bottle with me so that I don't get looks when I order one alone.

While I could be sleeping, I could also be boring.

I want my life to be sweetbreads and chanterelles, with polenta dredged in robiola and tomato.

I will not accept Splenda as anything but for the weak.

If you need sugar, there is no substitute.

I love that New York rewards you for drinking during the day.

I feel that my most rewarding drinking happens during the day.

While I'm quite skilled in evening imbibing, it is an afternoon on the porch with Tom in the kitchen where my socialization is at its prime.

There is a beautiful time of day when the clothes people wear change from outfits to costumes, and it usually coincides with the popping of a second cork - a harbinger of an imminent nap, and still no playmate.

One of my biggest regrets is not being able to see myself as others see me.

My eyes must be ravenous.

Every person that passes me by looks back as though I just unbuckled my belt ... or theirs.

Some smile.

Most don't.

One of these days I am going to dance on the subway when the mariachi duo strikes up a tune.

If the refrain is easy, I may even sing along.

For now, I will continue to sip on brioche bubbles and stare into the face of New York with a shit-eating grin on mine.

I get this city.

I get this afternoon.

I get it.

Now, to be had.