Overcome With Apathy.

This morning some doughy-faced, lumpy-haired, yet mercifully well-scrubbed migrant reclined on me the entire duration of the clickety-clackety peasant barge of shame to the Westside. One could hardly blame him. He was probably shuttling between his seventh and eighth  job, weary from overwork, exhaustion, bad sex and trying desperately to support his three wives and 47 anchor babies. Actually that is not true and completely racist, but I really can’t help trying to invent backstories for some of the characters I come across on the Metro. It’s the way locals travel, or so their new slogan goes for Jesus Fuck Christ sake.

Yesterday there was some bright-eyed young thing on the Metro wearing a smart Eataly polo shirt and I could only assume that he works there because if that place has its own line of clothing then that is some seriously over there bullshit. I really wanted to ask him what it was like in the shop since Christ knows I’ll never be seen in that place. Shopping for artisanal cheese, charcuterie and seasonal truffle oils? Please. Some places are finished before they even start. I’ll make do with Instagram and memories of DeLaurenti thanks all the same.

I think I may have up and committed myself to a month of straight-long drama and-a-half which is to say I gave notice on my flat and now have to find a new flat. I think I actually found one so there is that part hopefully done, but then of course there is the torture of moving all my possessions across town and learning a new neighborhood and commute and all that whatever.

There is the line from the best move ever Dune ‘Change, it jars something deep inside us. Allowing us to grow.’ And that along with case after case of PBR always manges to get me through these bumps in the road.