While I don’t have any hard numbers, nor do I really know where I’d go about finding those numbers, I’m going to estimate that in New York City there are probably anywhere from thirty-eight million to ninety billion people living in apartments, though those figures may be a little conservative. It’s roughly half the number of McDonald’s that we have here, or perhaps a quarter of the number of Starbucks locations in Manhattan.
Ah, New York, that great example of the “melting pot” at work… though I’m rapidly beginning to believe that the “melting pot” theory isn’t so accurate, after all. For those of you who have forgotten what I’m talking about, it’s that idea where you throw together all sorts of ethnic peoples into pot, stew them in a white wine and garlic sauce, and get a homogeneous community–or soup, as the case may be. Supposedly the United States is one gigantic “melting pot,” though it really just strikes me as more of a “tossed salad” or maybe a “chicken pot pie.” Though that soup does sound pretty good.
If there’s one thing that I miss more than anything else about college, it’s the meal plan… really, what beats the convenience of having thousands of dollars, courtesy of huge loans that you’ll have to pay back later, that allow you to eat all kinds of nutritious and delicious food at any time of the day or night? Sounds good, doesn’t it? I sure think so, but unfortunately, at Wake Forest, that’s not even close to what we had.
Well, I’m proud to say that, at just shy of a full year here, I’ve managed not to be arrested a single time, nor have I ended up living in a cardboard box by the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, though I hear those are hot properties these days. I mean, aside from one thumb-slicing incident that probably could’ve resulted in me dying from blood loss from the amount of screaming and flailing about that I did as a result, I’ve not really maimed myself significantly either… and you know that I enjoy a good maiming now and again.
The other day as I was standing in the cramped produce section of one of Bay Ridge’s tiny “supermarkets” pondering which sort of apple to buy, some old lady in a Hoveround scooter slammed (well, I guess “tapped” is a more appropriate word, but it makes what happened next seem a lot sadder) into the back of my left leg. I’m surprised that the apples didn’t all roll off of the display, seeing as how I essentially fell in that direction; fortunately I was able to shift my weight so that the right side of my body instead fell into the cooler case containing herbs and salad greens.
Doctors perform surgery of all kinds every day, and for a variety of reasons. Usually, surgery is prescribed when things go wrong inside your body due to diseases or accidents. Other times, you may need to have something chopped off like a growth or a foreskin. There’s also the possibility that you are among those of us who are born with some kind of freakish deformity that needs to be corrected surgically after years of ridicule and hateful jeering; perhaps, for example, you have to have your golf ball-sized boob fixed so it’s the same size as your grapefruit-sized boob (I wouldn’t go the other way around–“big naturals” seem to be in right now).