Flash!
I put up with a lot of things to live in this city so I can get fancy, important (sounding) media jobs and eat $27 dollar hockey pucks of foie gras any hour of the day or night, and drink martinis for breakfast, to boot.
For what most people pay for a three-bedroom ranch-style home in the suburbs, complete with a tacky split-level living room and weedpatch in the backyard, I get a locker-sized bedroom.
I have to deal with battalions of mice taking over my kitchen.
I ride the subway with people who have freshly shat their pants. I've seen old ladies people vomit into Tupperware containers on the train. I sidestep puddles of puke considerately left behind by New Jersey residents who clog my favorite bars on the weekends so I can't spend eight dollars on a beer if I want to. If I do manage to venture out anyway, random assholes on nearly every corner feel the need to comment on my hair or my ass or whether or not I decide to give them a big friendly smile while they harass me. (And ladies, I know it's not just me.)
Someone tells me I might have some kind of hideous genital cancer and I can't get in to see a doctor. I suffer from an acute lack of Vitamin D in the winter, not to mention seasonal depression.
There's nowhere to park, I've already dated everyone under 40 and a crack whore once stole my wallet. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.
But this -- THIS -- I thought I put behind me when I left the great state of Arkansas. Go Hogs.
Mister New York City Penis Flasher, I don't get you. When I walked by you this morning on my quiet, leafy, residential street, I certainly wasn't looking flashworthy. Five minutes out of bed, hair unbrushed and mascara still in my bag and most definitely not on my eyelashes, was this the face you wanted to imagine later when you went home to sadly and furtively whack off over the memory of how my mouth twisted into a disgusted grimace as you pulled your wrinkly little twinkie out of your pants? I certainly hope not. So what gives?
You whispered "Pssst, psssst, psssssst, LADY! HEY LADY!" while you fumbled with your fly, hands shaking like a alcoholic Parkinson's victim with a serious case of the delirium tremens. I hurried by, eyes studiously averted. I hope that afterward, you went even limper as you thought of your dear old mother, who'd no doubt off herself if she knew what you were up to.
And across from an elementary school, no less. At FIVE THIRTY A.M. Shame on you.
For the love of Pete, what is this city coming to?
For what most people pay for a three-bedroom ranch-style home in the suburbs, complete with a tacky split-level living room and weedpatch in the backyard, I get a locker-sized bedroom.
I have to deal with battalions of mice taking over my kitchen.
I ride the subway with people who have freshly shat their pants. I've seen old ladies people vomit into Tupperware containers on the train. I sidestep puddles of puke considerately left behind by New Jersey residents who clog my favorite bars on the weekends so I can't spend eight dollars on a beer if I want to. If I do manage to venture out anyway, random assholes on nearly every corner feel the need to comment on my hair or my ass or whether or not I decide to give them a big friendly smile while they harass me. (And ladies, I know it's not just me.)
Someone tells me I might have some kind of hideous genital cancer and I can't get in to see a doctor. I suffer from an acute lack of Vitamin D in the winter, not to mention seasonal depression.
There's nowhere to park, I've already dated everyone under 40 and a crack whore once stole my wallet. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.
But this -- THIS -- I thought I put behind me when I left the great state of Arkansas. Go Hogs.
Mister New York City Penis Flasher, I don't get you. When I walked by you this morning on my quiet, leafy, residential street, I certainly wasn't looking flashworthy. Five minutes out of bed, hair unbrushed and mascara still in my bag and most definitely not on my eyelashes, was this the face you wanted to imagine later when you went home to sadly and furtively whack off over the memory of how my mouth twisted into a disgusted grimace as you pulled your wrinkly little twinkie out of your pants? I certainly hope not. So what gives?
You whispered "Pssst, psssst, psssssst, LADY! HEY LADY!" while you fumbled with your fly, hands shaking like a alcoholic Parkinson's victim with a serious case of the delirium tremens. I hurried by, eyes studiously averted. I hope that afterward, you went even limper as you thought of your dear old mother, who'd no doubt off herself if she knew what you were up to.
And across from an elementary school, no less. At FIVE THIRTY A.M. Shame on you.
For the love of Pete, what is this city coming to?
posted by Had To Move at 10:19 PM
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