"This magnificent feast represents the last of the petty cash."

Jane was late. Very late.

Already on my second $3 drink, I was running out of ideas of how to entertain myself at Botanica. I had been there for nearly an hour, which was long enough to hear the entire Arcade Fire album and long enough to start compulsively checking my watch at five minute intervals. With time inching towards 7pm and the end of happy hour, I contemplated another vodka tonic -- a final drink for my already alcohol soaked annoyance.

At ten to seven, Jane finally showed up flustered and blaming a wayward N train. In light of my recent annoyances with the MTA and my conviction that they are trying to squelch my burgeoning social life, I could sympathize. Jane slumped down on the barstool for a round of drinks.

With nine dollars counted out on the Botanica bar (not including tips), Jane and I headed to Union Square to meet Jess for sushi. With more money flittered away on a good time, prostitution was starting to sound like a good way to get extra money.

I kid, I kid.

I'm going out tonight . . . and tomorrow. And since the L is not an option, I'll probably be taking more cabs than I care to.

Stupid MTA. Why is payday so far away?