New York City can be a harsh mistress. Or harsh master, maybe. I just realized that I have never really considered NYC's gender. Perhaps that will give me something to think about while I am gone.
Anyway, master/mistress/gender-neutral-term notwithstanding, it can be harsh. Today is utterly beautiful, and New York is making me feel so bad for leaving right now. I skip out of work in just under two hours, get to LaGuardia, and presumably sit there for quite some time before we actually take off. Although now that I think about it, perhas I will not have as much free time as it appears -- after all, taking these boots off and running them through the X-ray machine and putting them back on is a lengthy process in and of itself. And it does take a while to be stopped at every checkpoint and have one's bags rifled through (Why do they pick me? Are bleach-blond gay boys with trendy New-York-style satchels and a flair for the dramatic really that high on the Danger list?).
The sound of sirens from the street below is already making me feel nostalgic and I have not even left yet. And I will only be gone until Monday. I never thought I would be so attached to a place -- I feel like I am cheating on a boyfriend by spending the weekend in suburbia. Damn it all. I am going to go drown my troubles in some soup-in-a-bread-bowl.