I had so many cups of coffee today that I think I’ve developed an ulcer. There is some sort of bloated knot in my stomach and all I have to show for it is bad breath. If anything, the weight of the acid had dragged me down, and I feel even slower than I did this morning when I sat on the subway, staring at my own face in the window across the way, thinking “Hello, 1 train. Hello, you.”
I wonder if this is what pregnancy feels like, the heft and the bloat and the drag. I’m not pregnant. I would know if I was. I have always been extra sensitive, always a feeler in the worst sense of the word.
Everyone on the subway this morning looked drained except the tourists. You can always tell, because no one else could be bubbling over with such emotion, so much visible anticipation and zeal that it makes you feel sick to be awake so early to have an ordinary day. Their excitement probably cripples their ability to absorb anything real. “Hello 1 train!” their wide-eyes shout. “Hello, you!”
You smell like burnt coffee and mashed potatoes. Let’s make out?
“Happy Yom Kippur,” I say, at work, through mouthfuls of sausage, egg, and cheese. The subway was empty this morning. There are a bunch of people missing from the office today. I am so full of breakfast sandwich, I go make some coffee and consider a cigarette. I know I was raised a Jew, Bat Mitzvah’d and everything … But it feels good, it really does, to be an atheist.
It’s midnight! Dare I write a sentence so drunk the letters drip of vodka and you, in your slackbrowwed wonder, know I stretch the truth?
I know if you saw this, my fingers tracing over these letters, you would fall in love with me again. I know this about you. You could fall in love with me two thousand times and I would stop believing. Your silence is final and my response is, too. But I will stop writing when I feel you have finally walked away. You walk slow. You step softly.
This matters more to you than me. I know this because you know this. I have no idea who I mean for you to be anymore. I could write in the second person to anyone and you’d see it your way. That is what your ego means. And for the record: Carly Simon was right.
Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?
“Standing in a 15 minute line at Starbucks across from the MetLife Building, watching traffic inch forward on 45th Street and debating between an iced venti skinny vanilla latte or the new DoubleShot on ice, you would never know the U.S. is headed for recession.” –-Jacob
Not to beat a dead horse, but jesus christ I’m hung over. It’s 7:15 the next evening and I am absolutely wrecked. My back feels glued to the couch, and just thinking about my dinner plans is exhausting.
I tried the usual hangover cures. I had about twelve hours of sleep, a lot of water, a greasy egg sandwich from my favorite diner, and laid out in a quiet, shady stretch of grass in Central Park with my friends. And I still feel like crap.
I might need some coffee. I might need a martini. I might need to start swiping Jon’s mail-order hangover pills he swears by. I’ve spent a lot of time rolling my eyes at those red caplets, but I’m ready to forfeit my self-righteousness for desperation. This headache is making me resort to new lows.
Posted in Unhealthy, Vignette
Tagged central park, coffee, crap, desperation, diner, dinner, friends, hangover, headache, horse, pills, sandwich