There was too much vodka all at once, appearing magically in the hands of faux rappers, bananas, numerous takes on the sinking economy, smurfs, hipsters, ninjas, the cast of “Married… With Children”, and plenty others. Corkscrews and beer cans, cocaine behind closed doors, marijuana behind open ones. Patrick, not technically in costum, quite literally rolled in having swallowed an MDMA tablet and shaved most of his fro into a puffy mohawk. Frida Kahlo flirted with the hot sauce while Carmen Sandiego tounged Ron Burgandy. Matt Drudge looked away. Someone dropped a white russian on the floor. Even best friends pointed to my teased hair and I shreiked, “it’s not a wig!” again and again. The Empire State Building glowed orange in my window through the haze of the smoke and music. The police came and confessed they, too, used to be young, and smiled as I promised to lower the music and dance with less enthusiasm. Mia Wallace cut up lines on a magazine, but by then it was neary three. One by one they left, tripping through popcorn crumbs and cigarette ash. I let the deviled egg kiss me, because I love deviled eggs, and I thought I deserved it.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth