Dear sharply dressed fellow sitting to my right on the subway this morning:
Thanks for not-so-subtly reading over my shoulder on the trip in to Boston this morning. I trust your garlic bagel with smoked salmon cream cheese treated your esophagus kindly. Likewise, I’m sure you enjoyed the taste of Romain Gary, whom I myself was busy injesting as you hovered over me with the veracity of a cat in heat. Your “Who the f*&$ is this white girl?” glance towards my iPod - which unceremoniously flashed Mobb Deep’s ‘Got It Twisted’ on its miniature blue screen as I attempted to disentangle my foil-wrapped PBJ - was duly noted. I shall make a concerted effort to fill my Caucasian duties, such as allegiance to Ralph Lauren, Tahitian pearls and, eventually cheating on my future ex-husband with my personal trainer, moving forward. I sincerely apologize that my own musical tastes, akin to that of an MIT frat party circa 2004, are nowhere near the caliber of the Moby, Enya and other sensitive souls who flood your own personal music collection, presumably played during an underground supper club meeting as you sip Two Buck Chuck and wax intellectual with other enlightened folks who dig roasted root vegetables and emo chicks.
You’re so vain, you probably think this blog is about you,
Karyn
Karyn: Loving the new website! It’s awesome and fun to read. Keep it up.