Oh and let's not forget about my neighbor. I live in what would be the New York equivalent of a white glove building West of Third on the Upper East Side, okay? And this is my neighbor!

Sic to the whole ESL paragraph, obv.

"Unit XXX, according to bentley bay residents,is a homosexual brothel with a small methaamphetamine lab, hence electricity is being stolen from the hallway to power a generator to produce the meth. The sixth and seventh floor's should be careful of any chemical contamination. The other night our president, Mr. Alan Tempkins, caught Emmanuel XXX (unit XXX) digging in the garbage of the Bentley Bay. Mr. Emmanuel XXX tried to take the old computer of Mr. tempkins after Mr. tempkins caught Emmaunel XXX dumpster diving.It was bizarre to say the least."

Yeah, bizarre. That's the word. Seriously, this city is SUCH a joke! I heard, from other sources, that his maid felt funny after working for him, went to the doctor and tested pos for meth. Additionally, the construction dude who used the corner unit on my floor as an office, went into Emannuel's apt and saw him brewing something in the bathroom. Then recanted his story, with rightful fear of meth heads coming after him.

Why couldn't it have been a grow house instead?

"Crapula Scapula," Take 666

Can the director please yell "cut!" I'm begging.

I know I owe a ny report, but I am in serious pain.

I'm on two Vicodins, so likely this post will make little sense.

The scapula started acting up again a couple of weeks ago, probably a combo of stress and over-yoga-ing. (Dumb, dumb girl.) When I landed in nyc, it magically cleared up. Meaning, the stress/psychosomatic part of it was kosher. I was home, in the city I love, and I'd made the right decision to go back, cool. Stress-caused pain gone for a day!

But it was a very emotionally taxing trip. Natch, I was PMS crazy woman hormonal. I can't wait to get rid of my ovaries if it will spare me PMS. I don't even know what the intention of this post was aside to bitch about Cancer. About how just when you think you're out, it pulls you back in. About how I wept in temple on Saturday like a baby. About how you always have survivors' guilt.

I went to temple on Saturday in New York. It was thanks to this temple that I was introduced to Dr. Norton at Sloan. I have to be vague about this, but basically I went there on Rosh to pay my respects to the family responsible for, well, quite possibly saving my life. Crazy for me not to realize that this would be an emotional experience, not a la-dee-da people-watching session. Although Mayor Bloomberg was sitting a few rows behind me.

Anyway, I'm saving the more lucid parts of this story for the book. But I found myself standing up during the Mourners' Kaddish (sp? too fucking lazy to spell check), despite the fact that I couldn't think of anyone I specifically knew who died. But I know that some of my readers are dying. And that friends of friends or friends relatives are dying, so I felt I should stand.

I'm fucked up. Can't write anymore.