It's Never Too Late to Send the Invitations to the Last Night Of Your Life...

I'm in a P!nk state of mind. I've always been a P!nk fan, but after getting the chance to see her live in concert, my appreciation and obsession increased tenfold. She gets me psyched.

And I have a great reason to get psyched, because I'm finally, FINALLY going to visit New York.

This is a huge deal for me. I've camped out in the swamps of the Everglades, walked cobblestone streets in London fog, threw rocks at a rooster in the Philippines jungle, and even gotten reprimanded by hotel clerks in Hong Kong, but I've never ever been to New York.

What's even more silly is that I feel like I've already been there. Years as an executive assistant have lent to learning every twist and curve of 5th Avenue, the Financial District, and finagling cranky hostesses at hotspots trying to get a 7PM reservation at BOA or Norma's at Le Parker Meridian. My broadway obsession has sent me to see Idina Menzel open Wicked in London, Rent in Las Vegas, and season tickets at the Ahmanson Theatre & the Pantages, but Broadway, has eluded me. I salivate over the cuisine at Top Chef Harold's Perilla and ache for a frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity3.

If New York and I were a romantic comedy, we'd be Sleepless in Seattle. Except it would be called 'Hungry in Los Angeles', and it would star me and my neverending quest to get to New York to eat a friggin slice of pizza and sit in Central Park.

And New York would be a cold and elusive lover - so ornery and yet so lovable because of it's indifference. Smooth and suave and cold and calculating and indifferent - in other words, New York would be Mr. Darcy.

Except instead of just insulting me it would also hurl cabs at me and stink like garbage.

What? Even Mr. Darcy can't be perfect.