The New York Post is much more than a newspaper, it captures and defines NY and the New Yorker in all of us. I don't like reading the web or mobile version, it's just not the same. The smell of your ink saturated paper, the box scores, weird but true and Page Six are better in print. I like holding you as a prop on the train, walking the streets with you tucked under my arm feels so right.
The Post has never broke my heart or failed to kiss me, it's never ran late or had a headache when I'm horny. You my dear newspaper are always on time and funny. I love yew.
I prefer to purchase you at Eastern Market on Grand Street between Orchard and Ludlow as to anywhere else. You smell better on the Lower East side and you complete me as I walk to Cup and Saucer for eggs, bacon and coffee to kill another hangover. You keep me up to date on the city I adore the most with a humor induced style and risky images that are one of a kind.
I have left you for short periods of time thinking that the golden coast was the place for me. It's not, those Cali clowns can have their foreign cars, flat billed hats, surfboards, skateboards and pretend they aren't desperate to live here.
I haven't found anyone who is more honest and poignant than you and I remember the days when you cost far less. But it doesn't matter how much Rupert wants to rape me... You are worth all my coins.
Cheers,
AT.
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