Let the Games Continue! Only More Intensely!

As chance would have it, I'm headed off to a doctoral program in art history this upcoming fall. How excited am I? Very. How poor will I be for the next 5 years? Officially, legally, and statistically. These last few months in New York (I'm headed to Chicago) are also the last few months of my life as a "nine to fiver," a working woman in a pencil skirt with a bag lunch and coffee breath. The one luxury I have is that, childless and debtless, when I hear the dull thud of bimonthly paychecks hitting the concrete floor of my Citibank account, I know I can go out and blow that income however I please, and I please to roll around in this city's absurdly good dining scene like a pig in shit.

What I'm getting at, people, is this: my every breath will be charged to the largesse of a very kind university in a few months-- dining out will not only be impossible, it will be irresponsible. It's now or never. So let the games begin! Or rather, let the games continue!

I just did Giorgione 508, Fleur de Sel, 71 Clinton-- I want to hit Gilt and WD-50, Thor, the Spotted Pig, and any other place that is in New York, puts food in your face, and can piddle some grain alcohol into a tumbler. I'm so GAME right now, it's not even funny. It's like Schindler's List, that's how not funny my intensity is. It's like Schindler's Terms of Endearment, that's how literally FUCKING DEPRESSING and SERIOUS and NOT FUNNY it is that I am going to DROWN after I eat my way through the island into the Hudson.