Underbelly

Okay, I really debated whether or not to post this. It’s just so… well… angry and unhinged. I don’t want people to think I’m going to burst into some Latin dance class and open fire. Cause I won’t. But I wrote this at dark-thirty in the morning on an awful night. I was in a bad place and what came out, although mildly sincere at the time, was really just a result of my circumstances and my general discontentment. But I’m posting it anyway. When I first started this shitty little blog, I said I was going to give you the good, the bad and the ugly. So here’s some of the bad and ugly.

Underbelly

There are plenty of thoughts still bounding around this exhausted brain: Thoughts that despite spending multiple hours with the same exclusive group of people, they’re all still nameless to me; thoughts that shelling out two-hundred dollars to sleep in a filthy bed for six hours might be worth it; thoughts that stepping off the sidewalk into Manhattan’s speeding traffic would bring about a welcome rest.

Instead I’m sweating in the bowels of Penn Station, slowly becoming aware that the humid August air outside is preferable to this manufactured, circulated attack on my alveoli. Like sitting in some immense commercial airplane, I’m hoping I don’t wake up with a serious illness. I’m hoping I might actually get some sleep. Fortunately, if insomnia has its way tonight my frantic tossing and turning will be mercifully brief. Still, the simple prospect of laying atop my crumpled sheets for two hours is starting to look like a vacation; a vacation from bruised, swollen wrists and piss-stained cells; a vacation from too-loud elevator music blasting amidst public safety announcements; a vacation from this slinking, stinking, disgusting cross-section of humanity.

Hours ago, we were all standing there like tired, fascinated specters—observing the mechanics of this process with no control over them. We were sweating like pigs, bitching about bureaucracies and everything else we could never change. We were pulling crusted strands of gum from our pant legs and wondering what songs we were missing. We were slowly degrading into stereotypes, hoping we’d make the 12:15 train back to Long Island… then the 1:15… then the 2:15. Now, reality hands me a 3:15 train with a teasing smile and a big fuck you.

The nearby bars are all closed and the people in this waiting area are just misery sleeping on misery. I don’t know any of them, but I hate them all—hideous creatures with no dreams, no sentiment, no passion. I want them all to collectively wake and stand, then stab their neighbor in the throat. I want them to know what death feels like. I want them to cry like aspiring ghosts while their pathetic, broken lives bleed out onto this salt and pepper tile. Because they all deserve to be lost. And I could use a little entertainment.