What are you writing?

He asks me what I’m writing. It’s fair. “Just read that,” he says, and points to something I underlined.

“Okay. Apartment hunting in Manhattan is a vain, disgusting affair in which classic Jane Jacobs New York battles unsuccessfully with the gilded spill over of the post 9-11 real estate boom.”

“Not bad.”

“Really? I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

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