It is summer in New York, as in summer is here, as in it's hot, as in there is a heatwave, as in it's possible you might be standing on a sweltering subway platform when all of a sudden you witness a man pouring bottled water down the buxom cleavage of a large woman while she makes sounds of a rather sexual nature.
I am spending my days riding my bike around this fair city, sometimes stopping for intoxications, such as ice cream sundaes and Georgian cheese breads, sometimes just riding, not knowing where or for what purpose, but simply doing it. I've become an extremely strong rider, and I routinely embarrass people as I effortlessly leave them in my dust while they huff and puff and exert themselves with relatively minimal results.
Even though I enjoy all of this, of course we always want what we can't or shouldn't have, so I've been looking towards the fall, when pies will re-emerge. But one can surely eat a pie during the summer. Perhaps a berry pie or a peach apple cobbler?
So really there has been no point in writing this.
