It's harder to write when you're down, why is that?

Yesterday was a dark day. I left work with a toxic inferiority complex, generated by the growing knowledge that my fabulous internships are direct results of my very well connected grandparents, and not necessarily my own merit.

Many of my family members have thrown in an encouraging, slightly anecdotal word to the contrary.

The only person who has been successful in bolstering my confidence is my grandfather. In typical Ash style, he reminded me of his reputation, something he values dearly. And comforted me by saying that he would not have used his connections had he lacked faith in my ability to uphold is reputation.

This was on speakerphone while my mom cut his hair. I am still beaming.

I'd never walked up Madison at 7PM.

At 3PM, I find a variable assortment of runners, mothers with perfectly dressed children, small outfitted dogs, and, of course, normal people. But yesterday, as I perused the east side of the street, I found and felt something very different.

On 71st street, between a Prada and Ralph Lauren is a church. A few blocks up between more fancy boutiques, another church. Around the corner of a stiletto, spinning on a swarovski crystal pedestal, a trickle of a line is forming for the soup kitchen. Cardboard boxes, umbrellas and blankets are building forts like the ones my brother and I would make in the living room.

For me, it was the collision of real and fake, idealized and actual. The doors of Ralph Lauren opened, and fragrant, freezing air poured out. It smelled materialized, rich, luxurious. The homeless man wreaked of urine, tobacco and sweat.

I feel like I'm caught in a world where nothing is real.

4 Danish boys came over tonight for pizza and lots of beer. It was nice to be around people my age, boys was just an added bonus.