Let's start with the fact that I didn't get to bed until 4 am. This is the only ingredient required for a day-long migraine, apparently. Which I tried to soothe with a lovely, wonderful, fantastic americano. But instead I aggravated it by hitting my head very hard against the non-padded part of the green Salvador Dali couch in the Underground. I'll admit freely right here, right now, that I cried. It fucking hurt.
Fortunately Whitey is a fantastic motherfucker who let me bum a cigarette. Smoking, drinking coffee, and overlooking Bellingham Bay didn't ease the migraine one bit, but it brought on a zen-like feeling of acceptance that made it bearable.
Plus today was another day with Thor and the dinosaurs. It's hard to feel sorry for yourself when you're watching clips of people getting their arms twisted off by crocodiles.
In other news, holy shit. Check out the median income for white Manhattan families. That holy shit? That was said out loud. I cannot imagine making that much money by the time I'm 30, but I promise I won't complain if I do.
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