Tastes like New York.

As I type this from my penthouse view of Central Park, watching women push strollers down the large, clean sidewalk and the multitude of joggers as they weave in and out of the foot traffic, I think to myself, "How lucky can one guy be?"
I return to my living room, set my tumbler of some expensive scotch I've never even heard of but tastes like paint and admire my TV. So fucking big, and it has channels they don't show in America. Channels where I can watch people compete for household items, or television shows in Moroccan French, about saucy young people who's lives rival mine as they sit and complain about the increasing prices of muffins.
And then I think of my expensive sports car parked somewhere in Midtown, probably between 5th and 6th avenue, and the doorman downstairs that always calls a my favorite cab for me to drive me to my car. Dinner tonight is probably going to be Goat Cheese and Wild Mushroom Blinchiki or Braised Rabbit Pelmeni downed with an expensive glass of Chardonnay as I nonchalantly fall in and out of consciousness with whatever my date is talking about.
Afterwards, I'll return to my penthouse, check my e-mail, my blackberry, my Venus phone and my regular mail that's been presorted into corresponding piles (thank you to Lisa, my personal assistant) before retiring to bed so In the morning I can do 5,000 situps and stare at my thinning hairline.