The Last Straw

This is a true story.

Earlier tonight I was walking home, bundled in my North Face 600 count down parka, listening to the Counting Crows on my iPod. As I was walking up 8th Avenue, I was trying to embrace the holiday spirit. Couples were buying Christmas trees on 18th street while lone shoppers made their way to restaurants or to the warmth of their homes. Observing the frigid air, I was thankful for my short walk and warm clothes.

At 21st street, a homeless man was approaching. I started to feel sad that he was unbundled, alone and that he reeked of despair. And I finally thought I caught some of that warm fuzzy December feeling. At least I was feeling at all. But just as the homeless man and I passed each other, he turned to his left and spit in my face. He spit. In My Face.

And that my friends, is the last straw. I thought the waterfall ceiling was my breaking point, but now even the two months of wet mildew have been trumped. My days in NYC are numbered and the countdown to my one-way exit has begun.