Are you drunk?, she asked. I was lying down. I said I wasn’t. The truth was, I liked her advice more after a few drinks. I liked calling people and listening when I came home from happy hour. Like I was saying. I could hear music in the background. You’re not supposed to go to bed mad at each other, my grandmother told me. She winced in pain when she said it. I could hear it over the phone, the hum of violins behind it. She’s not allowed to drink anymore. No more scotch, no more wine. If you go to sleep mad, you’ll wake up with a bad back. She was silent for a moment. I turned on my side. The ruins of the stress on an old mattress run deep.
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