Having just moved into Brooklyn, going home to Jersey to pick up things you've forgotten is never a fun prospect. The trip there went well enough, with MTA and NJ Transit running swiftly for a change. Once back home, I threw all of my business casual work clothing into the only bag available that was large enough to accommodate it. A shopping bag featuring a giant fucking Spongebob Squarepants frolicking in a field of jellyfish with his mildly retarded starfish friend, Patrick. Swell.
As soon as I get back on the train the handles of the bag break, forcing me to waddle through Penn Station carrying said giant bag, looking half crazed because I could barely see over it. Somewhere near Auntie Anne's, purveyor of horrible pretzels, a wigged out and bloody homeless man decided he'd taken a shine to my favorite button-down.
Now kids, my fashion sense in kind of like my gimpy leg: It may lag behind, but it'll get there eventually. For a long long time I had no notion of the fact that fitted clothing looks much better than shit you buy 2 sizes too big. So when I find a shirt that I love, that's actually well-fitted to my frame, I cherish it goddammit.
Even so, its probably not a good idea to throw the bag in a corner and go chasing after the much larger man while yelling like hell. When a cop noticed and ran after him, the guy tripped and fell, and promptly bled all over the shirt.
10 minutes later I find myself waiting for the A, sweaty and wild-eyed, and checking out a cute boy who is unfortunately twirling a baton with gusto all over the platform. Note to Self: Never again are you allowed to give your number to someone whose opening gambit focused on the awful bag and twirls a baton. He was kind of adorable and interesting but I couldn't take my eyes off the baton. What would I do if this dude actually called and did this in an even more public place? I'd probably develop a crippling fear of any open space.
"You got them crazy eyes. You smoke weed?"
Clearly this is what I needed to hear right before going home for the night. By the cashier at Fairway no less. I resent the fact that I apparently look stoned out of my mind even before I go home and smoke a large bowl. Yes, taking a full 5 minutes to decide between mini cupcakes and peanut butter chocolate chunk cookies is kind of annoying but I don't need to be high to enjoy 12 finger-food sized cupcakes.
Safely ensconced back in my apartment my odd day of transit has apparently inspired me and my room-mate/best friend, Heavy B, to create this blog. Word.
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