So I've got writers block and - believe it or not - posting rambling stream-of-consciousness shit here used to do the trick. So imma try it again (something about knowing that what you write is publicly accessible and yet unlikely to be read is just the right amount of pressure lol... plus getting called a faggot and told to kill myself is the kind of tough love I respond to)
So within three months of moving back to NYC, I got kicked in the base chakra and clocked in the nose by a homeless man in Koreatown. Totally unprovoked. I considered hitting him back but figured a guy in a suit punching a homeless dude was bad optics, so I staggered away, ruminating on why it’s gotta be such a fucking mission to get to a bulgogi fusion restaurant.
When I arrive and sit down, my wife shoots me a quizzical what the fuck is wrong with you? look from across the table. I send her back a weak grin and two thumbs up, but the response is withering.
Her colleagues are intellectual and clean-cut, with insightful and considered opinions about the economy. Someone asks me a question. I tell them that I don’t really understand inflation outside the context of balloons, and they think I’m joking. We laugh politely and move on, while I swallow cerebrospinal fluid and scour the drinks menu for something with maximal anesthetic properties.
Someone asks me about work, and I begin telling the story of the time I saw Quincy Jones waxing his carrot behind a curtain at the Grammy’s, but my wife catches my eye and gives me a lethal glare. I backtrack and offer a less inflammatory anecdote, praying for the heat death of the universe, or God (presumably in the form of a Soviet satellite called V.A.L.I.S.) to remotely activate the sleeper cell chip embedded in my prefrontal gyrus and send me on a quest to assassinate Nixon.
Until then, I make do with intermittently burning my arm on a hotplate in the middle of the table, and inhaling grain alcohol like it’s the juice of Soma.
