There's something about saying goodbye that can glaze things over with sentimentality. Take today in Bushwick for instance. A cloudy, cold day spent dodging my psycho/creep neighbor combo in order to hopscotch poop on the sidewalk on the way to get some not so awesome reheated frozen gluten free Brooklyn pizza and a watered down Italian latte seems just so awesomely typical New York. It seems like a task worthy of dressing up for in the appropriate ghetto fab heels, tight leopard pants and trucker hat. It's almost romantic even though I still can't talk properly after an annoyingly long case of Bronchitis, probably caused by the influx of polluted waters from the recent Hurricane. But that's okay, because my voice now sounds exactly like Lindsay Lohan's, which I'm told is hot. It adds to a mystique that makes it seem like I too have been touring the club scene causing ...