Ave Michaels is an out-and-proud cynical romantic who never had her heart broken (considering she has to fall in love first.)
That is until, in order to get published, she has to prove she's a versatile writer by writing a romance novel.
Throw in a...
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"In Which Reality is to Continuously Shoot Oneself in the Foot"
(Pt. 1)
· · ·
"If it scares you, it might be a good thing to try"
-
Seth Godin
· · ·
10:20 AM
Pulse Publishing Inc., New York City, NY
New York City. What else can I say that would further stress how much I love this city?
It's cold, it's busy, it's culturally diverse, and everyone either scowls or glares at you. There was no use for sunny dispositions or fake societal niceties — because nobody got time for that.
But, most importantly, everybody is too busy minding their own business to ever care about another human being. Basically, they have lives to live and bills to pay.
I've lost count on how many times I got pushed, bumped into, or horned at, trying to navigate this concrete jungle. Yet, not once, did I mind any of it.
Maybe, it's because, like me, everyone is just a phantom traversing around an indifferent and faceless sea of people. Invisible enough to flit in between random people walking in the streets, like a tiny dot in the white spaces of Piet Mondrian's Broadway Boogie Woogie.*
But (of course, there's always a but) not enough to blend in this pristine interior and escape the prying eyes surreptitiously lurking from every corner of the room, staring at me like I was a speck of dirt that a custodian named Joe forgot to vacuum.
It was clear that me and my ratty grunge e-girlesque** aesthetic-wrapped ass (well, on the bright side, I did wear pants and a coat) didn't belong here. All that was left is for someone to point it out.
"Are you lost?" asks a snooty bottle-blonde woman in a nasal voice.
She was dressed in the typical New York fashion for the professional women, comprised of a creamy silk buttoned-up blouse, a flowing navy blue skirt with an intricate floral pattern (which I bet costs more than a quarter of my clothes) and a pair of designer heels with blood-red soles (which in my limited knowledge of high-fashion brands meant top-dollar).
This automatically leads me to two things:
a.) Wondering what happened to sweet ol' ladies in hand-knit sweaters and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and;
