Entering the Ross on Market Street is like walking the fine line between Grand Central Station and the left wing of Arkham Asylum. Not the wing where the Joker, Catwoman, and Chris O'Donnel's acting career are sitting and pondering their next evil plan until the next Batman movie, but the wing where the average Gothamians (Gothamers? Gothamites?) are hitting themselves in the faces with hand mirrors and eating their own playing cards (shout out to Good Burger). Last time I was there, I was followed down Market Street by a woman screaming at me insisting that Asian girls, such as myself, are taking all the jobs in this country. After insisting that she could HAVE my job serving cold cous-cous balls to Republicans if she wanted it, I ducked into the store. All I needed to do was make a return, but dedicated fans will remember that I ALWAYS choose the wrong line. This time I was stuck for twenty minutes while two women in front of me negotiated the price of their ice cream scoop, novelty Santa platters, 4 tea lights, a fake crystal decanter, and a medium sized porcelain Rooster which the cashier refused to wrap for them. Although, I frankly feel that if it gets broken in their travels, it's probably for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
"1...2...3...and we're on a ship/the men have left/yes they did yes they did/and now...we go...to the party"~SR counting out dance steps
"As they say in LA 'Perfection is expected.' But this is Philly. Where perfection is 'aight"~SR on performance.
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