Soo, this came in letters and emails to some of my closest friends and family. Apologies for using the same thing, all. I often get pegged for repetition. It's just that I want to tell you all about farts and fat people... Anyways, tidbits of my days I've remembered to scribble down:
I am only able to carry bags on one side. I think this is the case with most people. The left side is bruised from slinging a duffel across my collarbones during my travel to and fro SF. I told someone that my right side is my Schlepping Side and they pointed out that even with my bag on the right, I was still standing crooked.
The worst thing about the heat and the humidity is the stagnancy of smells. Farts linger exactly where you expelled them from your anus. And where there is no breeze but your own intake of breath and when the sense of smell is heightened by the heat, it is a good thing that I like -- nay, love! -- my own brand, as the Fat Bastard says.
Walking home. Two little girls skip past ahead of me. Little girls nowadays smell like berries and plastic.
Woman on the train in night wear. From a Tuesday night! Oh girl I am totally judging you! Or does she normally dress this way! Her thigh cellulite is frothing over her high-waisted booty shorts. Trashy trashy. But her boyfriend is so attractive!
In the 96th St Station: An androgynous boy, most definitely a model. Tall, thin, and slightly slouched. Velvet monogrammed slippers. Blazer and silk dupioni trousers. Still had make-up on. Yellow eyeshadow up to his temples. Legen...wait for it...
Siblings on the train with the same laugh and sandals. It made me feel so lonely! Another family of a mother and two children. She is ill-equipped for this, sitting with her legs spread and eyes adhered to a tightly clutched Gameboy like a growth from her hands while her older daughter screams, fidgets, and thrashes about the seats. While all six of the other family giggles in unison. I guess it's not productive to blame her?
Guns n Roses says, "What is civil about war anyways?" It made me think for a second and then I decided that the phrase lost all credibility when squealed by Axl Rose. I disagree anyways.
The D Train is so crowded I'm forced to face my side and can either close my eyes or stare on this giant of a woman's midsection. She's wearing a b/w floral shirt in some polyester material and the tire several centimeters below her belly button moves at twice the speed of the train's regular lurching. I watch it jiggle and wait at each stop for all-aboard. All the ride from Manhattan to Brooklyn.
I will not tolerate making out on the subway.
This man has a thin line of a beard. Makes him look severe. Which is I suppose effective because the only reason he has a stupid line beard is to sculpt his face, as he has too prominent of a double chin to reveal any bone structure.
Walking home, a kind-looking old man approaches. I smile at him as we pass. He does not return my smile but leaves behind a trail of second-hand smoke for me. The air is still not budging.