There is simply no better way to spend it than to write a blog post for my favorite people. You. I love you. Oh God, you’re so hot. Hold me.

So I lived in NYC for a few years after college, which means I’m not completely inept as I soberly stumble from one city block to the next. I like to think my NYC groove was officially back when I started jaywalking like a casual chicken crossing the road against the light.

I drove from Boston to NYC the other night. Although there isn’t a drastic scenery change from one New England state to the next, the people, and some of the places, were vastly different.

In Massachusetts, it was raining. That’s pretty much all I have to say about that. #ForrestGump.

I then pinballed around Connecticut to the point of having existential thoughts while listening to a Spotify “Road Trip” playlist.

I passed my alma mater, University of Connecticut, and stopped at a famous eatery called Rein’s Deli. Naturally, I ate. Like a lot. But that wasn't the only thing going on in this diner.

I’m often largely overstimulated by the littlest of things. Kind of like a spidey sense, but if that ability were on Sammy Sosa’s steroid regimen. Sometimes it feels as if my internal thoughts are automatically translated into an ever-growing list of haikus. Relatively thrilling, but equally annoying. Picture an unkempt, Mongolian monk playing a snake flute, one note a time, speaking treble-toned syllables in between each verse. That’s happening in my head.

Back to the diner. Let me give you a visual of what I saw.

I walk into a smile. The lights are dimmed to a “grandmother’s house” setting and an array of smells swandive up my nose. The colors are a stale combination of dark red, worn silver and welcoming beige. I steal a seat at the counter and start to read the diner’s paper placement narrative. Before I finish skimming, my eyes instinctively rise to meet a wrinkled-eye smile.

“Hi darling, would you like to see a menu”?

I don’t think I’ve been called “darling” since sophomore year of college when I found myself at a country music karaoke night.

The waitress hands me a menu and proceeds to apologize for giving it to me upside down. What universe am I in? These people are too nice. It kinda hurts. I wish she’d slap me to neutralize the niceness.

“Um, yeah. Excuse me. Can you hit me just above the jawline? Yes, please take a full swing.”

I set the densely populated deli menu over the paper narrative. A pair of pickles soon overlays both the menu and the placemat.

My attention pivots to a steaming pot of coffee suspended by a waitress wearing a forest green apron. I try to waft the caffeinated smoke as it rises over and across a plate slathered to the edge with an open faced pastrami sandwich.

“I’ll have one of those, please,” I say while battling with an open-mouth drool.

There are infinite number of stories to tell about this diner. And this was just one stop in Connecticut. Oy.

New York City is a different animal. People say there’s nothing quite like it. And while I don’t know these people, I’d have to agree.

NYC is a clusterfuck of yellow cabs and interwoven street art. It’s a place that classifies coffee as the fourth macronutrient. It’s a tad bit hard to think straight here. It’s even harder to write. The open space that was so easy to come by in Connecticut is villainously choked out between layers of skyscrapers. But I’ll tell ya, the people watching is absolutely unbeatable. You’re not going to find a businessman strolling to a transvestite beggar anywhere else. With the possible exception of Justin Bieber’s house.

Here I am, sitting in between two hedge fund homies, writing a blog post that I’m sure they’ve read most of over my shoulder. Awkward. I can smell the transvestite odor that must have rubbed off on their bespoke suits.

Is it too late to say sorry?