Hazy, Hot and Stupid

Ugh. It's one of those days. From Long Island City, the Manhattan skyline is a slate gray silhouette. The subways are already muggy and miserable. The Kitchen Door has been refilling its half and half with milk, and today I witnessed it in action. The reply from the owner? "It's too expensive... maybe when it gets cheaper..." Now that I've been suckered into the half-and-half club, milk just doesn't cut it and black is a fading memory. I would (and should) stop going there... if only I could.

Two days left, and just trying to make it without any more blackberry messages from my boss with the subject line "call me" (no message body). I hate those. I like them even less than these three types of phone calls: Driving, smoking and walking. I can't say exactly what it is that bothers me about them, but they really just rub me the wrong way. "Hi! I'm calling not because I have something to say to you, but rather I'm stuck doing something I'd rather not be doing, and you're the person to help me forget it." Conversely, I generally only call because I need something -- rarely calling just to say hi. Then again, I hate the phone. And blackberries. And tin cans too, because that's how this whole mess started.

When I get the Dick Tracey (videophone) watch that my generation promised me, then maybe I'll be less of a prat about communicating with my fellow human. Until then, I'm putting on my away message.

Photo used under CC license from flickr user corsaki.