New York buzzes. Caught in the wave of activity, I feel like a small conduit for something greater. I could do anything here, and feel like it means something. The toothless, homeless woman that I met today warned me against the dangers of not wearing a winter jacket. "You could catch neumonia", she said. I could be that woman, and still feel like I was part of something more significant.

The idea of watching one of those hollywood "chick flicks" complete with the square-jawed hero, and the hopelessly brain-dead (yet beautiful) recipient of said hero's far-fetched plan to win her heart makes me want to give myself a labotomy.

I guess that I feel this way about sappy love stories because when compared to the real thing, their bland, formulaic, soullessness is saddenning...more than inspiring. It says to me that people don't believe that the staggering, breathless, feeling of oneness that a person experiences when they are truly in love, exists.

Despite what is depicted on the dish soap and diaper commercials, I don't find it necessary to find the "man of my dreams", get married, have babies, and lead a spectacularly boring life. I would rather have a series of long affairs with a variety of men. I would find splendor in every one of them- lavishing affection on them, and savoring their perspective slowly, like a glass of fine wine.

It has been said that chocolate is love. I think that it's the rows of round, square, dark and light chocolates (the variety) that we find so appealing. However, coconut cream and caramel may not be quite so splendid when consumed at the same time. A girl needs to cleanse her pallette in order to enjoy each chocolate with the intensity that it deserves. In other words, one man at a time, please.