Post Office

One of the reasons I know I need to quit my job is that my new responsibilities require me to go to the post office, a place where hopes and dreams go to die and where elderly women go to cough freely without covering their mouths, every. single. day. Not everybody who reads this lives in New York, but everybody who lives in New York knows that every post office in New York is literal hell on earth. Except for this bar, which is inexplicably also called Post Office – confusing on Yelp for residents who need to send a package with haste, but great for precious Williamsburg bullshit!

That shit is dumb as hell – like why would you name a bar “The Library?” Don’t fill me with anticipation over a library, which is my favorite place on earth (have I written a post about how fucking amazing libraries are? I literally can’t get over it), and then kill all my dreams with a bar.

I know that’s not just a New York thing, but I just feel like hating on New York right now. What else is new?

Actually, here is something new: somehow, in twenty-four years, nine of which included a music festival of one sort or another, I’ve never had the misfortune to see white people dreadlocks up close, until last night. Thank fake Jesus there was a somewhat cute baby nearby to draw my eye, because holy shit! It was like one of those TV shows where they show you real surgery and you seriously want to look away but you can’t – it was the stuff of nightmares.


What I am learning with the quality (see: lack there of) of this post is that I need to obtain more caffeine prior to writing.


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