I Bleed Glitter

New York City, high above a dive bar, lived in a modest bloke. On a chilly fall day, he arose to the sounds of campy show tunes. Within a night’s slumber, he had listened to so many show tunes. His ears bled glitter.

With a waltz and a tap, he looked himself in the mirror. Somewhere between “Anything you can do, I can do better (hello, Annie Get Your Gun)” & “Suddenly Seymour (hello, Little Shop of Horrors),” his eyes widen with fear. “Oy, I’m unemployed, but shit, I can still listen to the best of musical theatre. He smiled.

The anguish was an excuse to sing songs all day. He tapped danced around his apartment, but decided that the world needed to hear his sweet, sweet voice. After a quick brushing of teeth, he took his laptop and ventured into the delightfully frigid day. Everyone on the subway was dressed up in stylish outfits. They looked busy on their way to work.

Our musical theatre loving, writer with a passion for coffee, felt left out. He wanted nothing more than to get back to work. “Fun-employment could only last for so long,” he said. By the time he reached St Mark’s Place, he tried to hold back singing a sad song.

Fortunately, he found relief. Hello, bagel and coffee. Rather, than singing a sad song, he put fingers to keyboard. Fueled by coffee and campiness, he wrote a story. His eyes widened. “This is my own private writer’s retreat. I could write a novel, beautiful poetry and daydream the days away, said he, staring around the East Village coffee shop.

Channeling the ghosts of Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein, our campy, unemployed, boy wonder set off new literary adventures. He found inspiration and a revival of storytelling. On the stage of life, audiences cheered. Glitter fell from the sky. Thank you, old New York & its many unexpected opportunities.

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