The downfall of moving 1200 miles away from home.

When you suddenly get light headed and nearly pass out on 34th street. At first it feels like a really big panic attack (I mean, you have been bitching there are too many people on the streets at lunchtime) but it doesn't stop. Figuring you need some sugar and a fountain diet coke would be amazing, you wander into a McDonalds sipping your delish drink and realize even after the sugar and the sustenance, if you choose to stand you will in fact pass out because there is no way in hell you can walk the avenue to your office. This is when you realize just how much it sucks to be alone in the city.

The only people you think to call are those in New Orleans who can do little more than tell you to go to the ER (which you flat out refuse- knowing your insurance sucks and knowing you already have a health problem and knowing you don't want to go unless someone holds you hand through it) and in the process you freak them out even more by calling them instead getting into a cab and going straight to the ER (which heaven only knows where one is) or back to work because maybe they would know what to do.

And hours later as you lay in your bed with the room continuing to spin and your head feeling like a fishbowl, you are a 26 year old with no one to cuddle with and make you feel better even if it is just laying next to you.



PS- If I die, someone please make sure Tori Amos makes it to the funeral to sing 1000 Oceans. Thanks!