saturday

Midtown Manhattan is God's little reminder that hell is real.

I accidentally left my hair straightener in the office over the weekend and was forced to venture up from Chelsea to retrieve it. Naturally there was a parade on Broadway. Middle-class America oozed into the streets with blank stares and bulging love handles. I crossed streets on "don't walk" signals.

When I finally found a corner seat on the 7 train, I buried my nose in Kafka and tried to immerse myself in existentialism. The buttery brown face of a quarter-aged man caught my eye. He was wearing a Mets jersey and a Movado watch. Plugging away at his Crackberry.

I neared my building. Looking across the river, I spotted a 30 foot ski boat and it's frothy wake. My mouth gaped without permission. I bet it's 80 degrees in South Carolina.