I don’t trust this blog anymore. I am thinking about starting a new one. Today someone found it by googling my whole name and the phrase Subway Philosopher.
That makes me paranoid.
I never update this at work. An occasional glaring edit, yeah. But I re-read it at work occasionally to see what poured out of me at last night at 3am, or to check comments sometimes. It makes me wonder if any coworkers have found it. They’re not stupid, and everyone gets nosy.
The whole idea of it makes me uncomfortable.
More often than not I am forced to delete a big, beautiful paragraph of personal scandal. I can’t post something like that.
I don’t even write on the subway anymore. That’s how I started. It’s why the blog is named like the title of an “about us” section on a popular sandwich chain. I got drunk and on the long subway rides home, back when I used to live uptown, I would write half-poetry-half-observation in my little black Moleskine. It was illegible, mostly. It was drunk and wild and heartsick and New York.
And now what the hell is this anymore. It’s barely a room for my thoughts. It’s no place for my poetry. It’s a parasitic relationship with timestamps.