Not a good block away from Mr. Smith I bump into a relentless guy from Green Peace. He looked like a White, bearded Winnie the Pooh, and his boxers were all in a bunch because of this oil spill in the ocean (as they should be). So as I walk to my appointment, my face stone cold, he does not take the hint that I do not want to be spoken to. He begins rattling off facts about how he wants windmills in New York and how the oil has ruined the fish or something like that. I inform him that I have an appointment, but he insists that he can walk and copy my credit card number at the same time.
"Maybe next time," I mumble.
"Holly, there is no next time! We have run out of next times! Next times are over!"
I rolled my eyes. After the train ride from Hell where I was misdirected by a train official, I was in no mood to be harassed. I went to my appointment, then decided to walk around Grant Park, the home of the fashion week I had always wanted to attend. For some reason, I thought it would be bigger.
Somehow, although my feet were burning, I made my way to the world's chicest Payless where the only shoe they had in my size was a worn, twice returned pair of sneakers.
Irritated and hot, I took a seat in front of the NY Library which, for some reason, had a very depressing art display of angry words in the window like Ugly, Fat, and Weirdo. I guess that the irony is that these words were pretty and sparkly.
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