Oh, how I just love softly and awkwardly tip toe-ing out of an apartment that, until now, I have only seen at night, feeling like a soldier on the wrong side of the trenches, a tourist in a foreign country, a nun in a GaGa costume. As I open the door to the outside world where (some) people are actually being productive, the cool November Bronx air is violent, smacking me back to the reality that things seemed a lot more glamorous the night before. Thinking of the trip ahead of me—a few blocks—makes me feel like I’m embarking on a journey to cross the Sahara. I walk down the street feeling like I have this big secret that no one who passes by me knows…except they definitely could pick up on my situation if they were to notice my smudged make up, wild, slept-on hair, and my completely obvious “Me?-Doing-the-walk-of-shame?::nervous-giggle::-Don’t-be-silly!-Hehehe” face. My normal feminine strut with head held high becomes a soccer mom power walk with my eyes fixed on my black knee-high wedge boots…with fur. I eventually get back to home base, and as I’m turning the key my neighbor and I exchange quick waves and hellos. I could sware he has this look on his face like “Where are youuuu coming from?”

Or maybe that’s just paranoia.

Yup, paranoia indeed I decide as I slip into my room and plop down in my comfy black chair. Well, that was fun.

Now, where’s my coffee?!