wine and cheap perfume

I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that I will have to work anywhere from five to seven days a week from now until I'm old to support myself and my depressingly low-brow lifestyle. I spend all of my money eating in bad restaurants in and around the East Village, three to five times a day. I can't stop. It's compulsive. I'll wake up and have all the fixins' (I said "fixins") for a lovely at-home breakfast, yet before I know it, I'll find myself being served a plate of undercooked eggs by a heavily-tattooed gay at a local vegetarian restaurant with flies on the wall.
Last night a Spaniard named "German St. Clair" came into the bar and told me that I was "a magical girl" who "make(s) magic behind the bar." I was all, "in other words, I make drinks, which help you forget that you're a Spaniard named German St. Clair." When I asked him to play me a Journey song on the jukebox, he told me that my wishes were his "orders." I was like, thanks. That's really romantic. So he bounded over to the jukebox and instead played "New York, New York" six times in a row, and as he danced back to his bar stool (jazz hands and all) he shouts, "I can think of nothing more better than to sit-- with you-- in a New York restaurant, as this song is playing in the background!" I thought, "Wow." Like, wow.