I drank too much scotch, sure. Give me a Friday night when I don’t drink too much scotch and I’ll give you a lie. But it wasn’t the scotch. It wasn’t the scotch, and it wasn’t the soggy lettuce later on. But whatever it was, I was scratching at the cab door. My nails were crawling up and down the window, and my legs were crossing and uncrossing until the cab pulled over prematurely and as he paid I was already walking, and he reached for my hand but I dropped it, and when we were in my room he brought me a glass of water and laid down and began to snore. And I laid down, too, momentarily. But then I was in the bathroom heaving up the lettuce. And then I was on the floor, wrapped in a towel on the cold tiles, sweating and moaning, and then sulking back into the big bed in the next room. Every thirty minutes I made my way back to the bathroom, until six or seven hours had passed, and gastric acid was sliming down my nose and my throat was burning and he finally woke up and looked at me, and I wasn’t even crying, I was just faded and negative and practically a minus sign of a girl. I was burning with fever, and I continued to burn up all day, until the room was covered in shiny ribbons and the pillows were damp and I kept saying over and over again how cold it was inside, and how warm it was outside, until I slid back into a rich, black sleep and the day came and went like a fairytale of sickness past.
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