Last night my roommate and I decided that we needed to go out. Really… we needed to…. between the insanely long hours he works and me trying to balance word sorting and nervous breakdown patterns… going out was imperative.
Our wanders led to a divine West Village hideaway where we were tucked into a tiny linen fortress and presented with deliciousness after deliciousness while one of the hottest women I have ever seen in my life shook her hips and rolled her body in ways that simply defy my previous understanding of human possibility.
We drank Turkish coffee and blew sweet puffs of grey clouds in a dimly lit room. In between inhales, exhales, and admiration at the hottie shaking her thing, we exchanged versions of, ‘Seriously… who wouldn’t want to live in New York City… it’s a country within a country.’
Walking the 1am sidewalks stories were drifting and floating all around me. They wrapped around my ankles, they wove around my wrists.
To top off the evening, I swung into RSVP lounge to make triple sure we’ve got a room for Sunday readings… we totally do. The owner of the venue is a very down supporter of the cause and I can’t wait to pack his place with Writers.
There will be drink specials… there will NOT be a cover charge… there’s a spotlight and a mic… a small box to stand up and be heard from…
And there is quite possibly going to be hookahs… dead set…