Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I got pooped on.
It happened outside of the Starbucks on 103rd Street (confirming the widespread Columbia dictum that everything south of 110th Street is strange and dangerous). I had been productive all morning, so I’d decided that I deserved a reward. “Go ahead, Rega,” I remember thinking. “Treat yourself!”
The spring in the air put a spring in my step, and I bounded happily into Starbucks. I bought myself a cup of iced coffee and, genuinely in love with the universe at large, smile on my face, Macklemore on my Spotify, I walked out of Starbucks and into the sun, into a world that I believed to be my oyster.
Splat.
