Subway Stream of Consciousness

Waiting for the local 1 train incites all kinds of insane, intrusive thoughts.  It’s incredibly slow, and it’s easy to get lost in the Motley crew that is it’s passengers waiting in the Christopher St. Station.   Perhaps, outwardly, I’d like to think I fit right in.  Eastern European tourists wearing neon-colored man-pris always ask me for directions to Macys in halting English.  If only they knew the inner dialogue that’s swirling around in my brain.

What is that smell? 

Is it vomit, or Cheetos?

When could vomit be confused with Cheetos?

When was the last time I ate a Cheeto?

I will never eat one again now that I know how easily is is mistaken for vomit.  

Not that I make a habit of eating junk food.  Or anything with white sugar.  Except on Fridays. And Sundays.  And sometimes Tuesdays when it’s five dollar burger night and who can really enjoy a burger unless it‘s on a bun?

That woman wearing the Carrie Donavan glasses with the dog in the bag sporting a RL cardigan better be joking.  And not sit next to me.

I’d actually prefer the usual urine scent over this vom-eeto.  

I’d look that, too, if I choked down a green grass smoothie every day and called it lunch.  

I have to take my Mom to lunch.  Tartine.  Definitely.  Hmmmm. That’s more brunch-y.  Buvette? Too trendy.  Elephant and Castle? Maybe.  Nope.  Tartine.  Definitely Tartine.

Why can’t I just live here? Aside from the fact that I am poor and my entire family is in New Jersey.  

Can everyone tell I don’t live here? I am the only woman in a sea of Rag and Bone wearing yoga pants from the Gap.  I think they can tell.  

Oh my gosh.  It’s well over 5 minutes late and if I miss my 5:33 train I’m going to kill someone.  

What is on the bottom of my shoe?

That is human feces in the corner.  Absolutely.  When did I become an excrement expert? That is so gross.  Everyone else is probably thinking about their next novel or play or song and I am thinking about poop. This is why I haven’t written a book yet.  

I should write a book.  

Should I write it first, and then try to get an agent? Agent, then book? What do you need an agent for when there’s nothing to show? Stupid. Who needs an agent anyway.  

Everyone.  Everyone needs an agent.

I bet that guy over there has one.  

He does.  He’s on the phone rolling his eyes and silently mouthing to his friend, “My agent” as though it was the first dirty word he ever said- with a look of surprise and courage and pride.

I need an agent, clearly.  

I’ll never get one wearing yoga pants , in a ponytail drinking a non-skinny latte.

Ugh.  So much pressure.

 How can anyone live here?

I can’t wait to just get home.

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