Blonde Tsunami

In one of my last U-district adventures, I was nearly drowned by a sea of blonde lemmings. I found myself walking south from 47th to 45th. The street appearing normal, a demographic of balance. Slowly at first my eye, keen as it is, begins to notice a changing of the tide. At first a small group, three, in matching shirts, products of the same factory. As if a secret conveyor belt were working overtime, waves of feminism begin to crash against the calm of the "Ave". By the time I reach 45th, the seemingly banal waves have grown into a tsunami of catastrophic magnitude. I find myself drownding in a sea of blonde. Incessant chatter crashing all around me. Rush week consumes me, eroding my non-Greek countenance--transforming me into a sex-crazed teen. Violently, images of unfulfilled fantasies whip through my head. The musk of perfumes intoxicating. Perspiration weeps from my brow, my hand clammy to the touch. Just as soon as it came, it passes. I remain, a rock in a sea of normality once again.