You know those really old buildings that smell like old age and moist carpet?
In their heyday, they might have housed the offices of private investigators who wore fedoras and soothed overly emotional women with alcohol, or hot shot advertising agencies, pitching out the next big campaign while smoking rolled up cigarettes and drinking scotch.
Off topic, but America was so much more productive when we were allowed to drink at work, we should do that again. Whoops, I just saved the economy.
So, those buildings exist all over New York City, where I currently am, and when I have to go in them, I no longer think it’s the site of some cool drunk guy doing business, but rather, the home to lots of drunk guys, doing crack and emailing people that they won the Nigerian Lottery.
Any logical person would be like, oh my God, you should totally not go in there, and I’d be like, you’re right.
Except not only do I go in there, anyways… I get in the elevator.
Because that makes sense. This building smells like human waste and date rape, let’s put a pin in that while we get into the tiny box hoisted up and down by a rope, I’m sure it’s totally safe and inspected regularly by a super dapper elevator inspector in a crisp white jump suit, smelling of hair pomade and whiskey–shit.
I got stuck in an elevator for about ten minutes. This is a picture I took not freaking out about it, but the guy next to me started crying, ok we both did.
Tip: When you suddenly find yourself stuck in a small area, like a coffin, or elevator, or Fiat, everything you drank for the whole entire day immediately decides it would like to evacuate your body. Carry something in your purse to do that in so you don’t have you hold your crotch with your hand in front of strangers.