As one of those native New Yorkers who can talk for sixteen hours about movies and television and art without missing a beat but just stare blankly at the suggestion of a "hike" somewhere, I spend all night wondering if there's the right girl out there for me who can appreciate my dichotomy of highbrow interests and extremely crass behavior. All night. Then I sob into my pillow, clutch my stuffed bear Montenegro, and drink bourbon straight from the bottle, and repress the tears away.
Frankly, I think Montenegro's gotten tired of it...he's been awful curt during our morning tea, lately. Bothersome old bear. I bet he's penning some nasty letter to the periodicals.