New York is a fickle mistress. Sometimes you have one of those magical weeks where the city is a glittering wonderland of fun and excitement and success.

And then you have a week like I’ve had. First there was the Starbucks poop incident. Then today, I was coming home after a long workout, starving and dripping with sweat, just wanting the cool comfort of my apartment.

I walk up to my building door and my super stops me.

“Just FYI, you’re gonna smell something weird in the elevator…”

“Did you spill some bleach or something?”

“No,” he said casually, “a guy on the floor below you died.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Yes, the smell that he was referring to…was DEATH. THE SMELL OF A DEAD BODY. Apparently an old man fell out of bed and died and ok, I know, him being dead > me being grossed out, but this just really isn’t what I needed.

I’m need to get the hell out of here.