In short, I'm feeling normal people's disease. I don't want to be normal. I want to be special. Writing about New York is bringing it all back; life should be a party and not a meeting.
Let me just say, I want to live a life of leisure, opulent leisure. I don't want to work anymore. I hate my job. I want to fly to any city of my choosing and have meals like I had in New York. And I don't want to have to exercise. And I don't want to gain weight. Oh, and I want fabulous clothes. I want to not have to look at price tags. I don't want to have to censor my comments for fear of pissing someone off. I want to be able tell someone they're an idiot and not worry that my livelihood depends on them. I want a pied a tier in Manhattan, an opulent home in San Marino, a villa in the south of France and a flat in London. I want an amazing partner with looks, taste, brains, culture and sexual prowess (yes, that's what I mean, took me a minute to actually write it though!).
I don't want to have to even load a dishwasher ever again. But I do want to change Cam's dirty diapers - at least for a little while longer, hopefully the little bugger will be starting potty training soon. Oh, and clean my house? I don't want to do that anymore either. I want to have it completely detailed to my satisfaction without actually telling anyone what satisfaction to me is. I want someone to read my mind and deliver the goods.
When I come to terms with my everyday mediocrity, the New York post will be finished.
And I'll be searching, searching, searching...
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