My day on the train

Audio! (Apologies on the sound.  I left my fan on like a pussy.)

This is a mushy mush of three different subway inspired rants.  Enjoy.

I have a great disdain for yarmulkes. Again, AGAIN I must express that I am not anti-semitic. But just imagine seeing someone very attractive walking down the street then they unzip their hoodie to reveal a shirt that says “I will never fuck you. In fact, you may as well consider myself a eunuch, because you have no chance.” It’s kind of buzz kill. It’s even worse than a wedding ring. They aren’t entirely and completely off limits if your morals will allow. And with our divorce rate you don’t even have to settle with being the secret floozy. Just wait. A wedding ring says, “You have at least a fifty percent chance of fucking me in the future.” But no. A yarmulke says, “I’m not just Jewish by heritage. I don’t just have cute dark hair and a come hither nose. No. I don’t eat fucking shrimp. I make a whole holiday dinner about eating with my invisible friend. And I don’t. Date. Outside my religion.” Fuck you jews.

But no. Other than hating jews on the subway I often find myself looking at what everyone’s wearing. Sometimes I wonder where I get off criticizing people’s fashion, in my head… I’m not a total dick, when I’m such an avid t-shirt and jeans girl myself. It seems a little hypocritical. But then I remind myself that just because you have they eye, doesn’t mean you have the body, wallet and time. Okay, take it back. I must be a dick, that was certainly a dick thing to say… I’m alright with hat I think. Regardless of guilt or snobbery, if you’re entering the summer wearing a brown dress with a brown jacket with a brow bag, brown fucking shoes and to top it all off the mousey brown hair of your sadly misguided genetics? Then your wallet, body and time have gone to waste, girly. There was one stripe of turquoise running down the line of the dress like a lost string of taffy being stretched through Wonka’s frothy chocolate river. But that’s only a reprieve on the dress designer part and not the uninspired automaton who is running under the, mistaken, impression that she can dress herself in the morning.

In defense of this catty diatribe, I really only give such thought to those who are trying. There’s a language in fashion and so often the only words it knows how to speak in human is, “I think I’m better than you.” Followed closely by, “I cost way to fucking much.” I’m not going to mentally berate the middle aged woman in her stretch waist jean capris and oversized Tweety bird t-shirt. She’s doing her thing and that’s fine with me. I merely match condescension with condescension.

While we’re on the subject. Men. If you ever find yourself in the position of being successful and requiring a suit of some kind remember this. On par with ol’ Augustus Gloop over here is the high powered business men/lawyer/executive/insert corporate title here who looks like he’s playing dress up in his daddy’s clothes. Tailors. Please!

Fashion criticism aside, a ride on the train generally has no shortage of life lessons. A few seats away from me there’s a man, demonstrating the importance of life’s little pleasures. He’s jovially munches on his breakfast. The look on his face is as if that small brown paper sack holds his dearest treasures. And each time his hand dips within it and pulls out a luscious chunk of blueberry bagel slathered in cream cheese! It’s a triumph! A triumph that is deposited into his grinning maw and chewed ever so gingerly. I would hazard a guess that half the people on this train have not experienced such jubilance in weeks as this man enjoys as part of his daily morning ritual. He then retrieves from his crinkled depths a plastic cup of frothy orange. He sucks it down like a wanderer through the desert coming upon a juicy oasis. Just like that the meal is finished. The bag is empty, but the memories remain with him as he settles back into his seat with a contented sigh. Is this the happiest moment of his day or does he attack all activities in his life with such fervor? I might be forced to guess the former because the man’s face has now fallen into line with the other work week drones. Must’ve been a good fucking bagel.

Still kickin’

Audio!

The weekend looms near. I haven’t even had the chance to explain why that makes me just a little bit nervous. It’s a good story. But another obvious reason is the paltry sum of bills in my wallet that comprises the only money I have to last me till next Friday. The rest remains under lock and key for upcoming bills. Away in my bank account. Bills that I will only be able to cover by the skin of my teeth mind you. And it’s not just my happy beer money that’s in my wallet. No this needs to cover groceries and any other household expense that comes along (Such as… Oh shit running low on shampoo… and god damn I need to do laundry.) Certainly I’ve had moments. Moments where I feel that miniature population of me’s running the brain inside my head gets a little restless. Tired of manning that super computer of impulses and logic that I seem to ignore no matter how hard they try to steer me the right way. Yes the chief administrator of levers in sector 72 of my brain he’s… he’s just lost it entirely. He’s pounding on the inside of my skull as I look worriedly over my budget sprawled across an excel spreadsheet. He’s screaming what are you DOING? Meanwhile, my left eye hasn’t blinked in 3 hours since he abandoned his post.

I laid in bed last night, and by bed I mean mattress. More really… it’s a mat. A mat on the floor. My new guitar, bought on credit, laying on my right side. A small fan from my roommate blowing on me on the left (Air Conditioning? Ha!) I thought about the numbers I’d just stretched and pushed so that I would be able to pay rent come July 1^st. I thought about the realization I’d made that on the salary I just accepted Monday, it wouldn’t be much better next month. Or the month after that. And so on and so forth. And as I’m prone to do my brain began to crunch the possibilities. Moving home was one. Make no assumptions about what sort of viability it had in my mind though, even in the middle of the night; yet, I have to admit that there was a small thought of, “Wow. How much easier would it be to be free of a few bills while I pay down my debt.” My debt is from previous moves by the way. When you’re job hunting for a month in a new area those things can kinda creep up on you.

Yet, every time I find myself walking the streets of this city my heart breaks. I stroll through some of my favorite books and movies everyday here. I’m fulfilling a childhood dream.

So please don’t misconstrue any of this as complaining. My struggles are generally of my own design. I don’t a grudge for becoming a New York transplant stereotype. It’s perfect. Would I be ever so much happier if I was making more money? Living in a place of my own drinking chilled Pellegrino, stroking the head of my fuzzy lap dog. Well. Maybe. I do love pretentious water and ugly dogs. But I’m pretty happy being a kid, being stupid, being a bit of a rat. That’d explain why I keep moving whenever I start to get settled anywhere. And hey, there’s not much else for a 22 year old to do, unless I’d rather just start storing up my resentment for life right now. I certainly don’t want it to be in short supply when my hair starts turning grey, it’s all I’ll have to hold onto.

So the plan is to keep on hanging on. Maybe I’ll get a second job. Something nice and decent. Or maybe not so decent. Whatever works. Or maybe I’ll find a way to cut my grocery bill further and spend a couple more hours out on Saturday night drinking a couple more beers to forget about that silly debt thing. But basically… we’ll see how it all pans out. I’m still here. Still kickin’.