Hot Dog Coma

I’ve been in New York City for two days now. One of the greatest cities in the world; center of the universe, a culinary heaven, full of Michelin star restaurants, and all I keep eating is Gray’s Papaya Hot Dogs and cheap slices of pizza.

I’ve been walking in circles around the 4-5 block radius between 35th and 45th street and 8th avenue with papaya juice in one sauerkraut smelling hand and a cigarette in the other.

There is a mustard stain on my hoody. I am getting ready to fall into a hot dog coma. I couldn’t be happier.

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