Last stop on the freedom train
Well, in a few days Jackass can celebrate his one year anniversary. Anyone want to bet if he contacts me? Yea, we already know what those odds are considering messages of late. But, in February all kinds of shit blew up at me, and I was left spinning. With things like that you just get up and move on. People die and you try to grapple with it, understand it, cope with it.
You get out of your funk and move back home, to the city of lights, dreams, dirty streets, and charm. Yes folks, I used charm in the same sentence with NYC. You spend the night in the Upper East Side visiting an old friend, go to a movie in the park ("Breakfast at Tiffany's" at Carl Shurtz Park was awesome), and you traipse with another friend to Coney Island to get just the right amount of vitamin D and sea salt. You make aquiantances in your neighborhood, you re-learn the subway--remembering a now funny hungover mishap as tourist in 1997 and attempt to not laugh like a loon while sitting on the Q--you figure out where the ATM is, you find the bread shop, and you learn to live in the winding streets and layers of your 'hood.
You entertain flirtations, you smile, you laugh, and you begin to think you have your game back. You have a failed summer romance, or somesuch. Then . . . then . . .
Then you find out that Jackass wasn't the only one to make you his last stop on the freedom train. Here is what I have to say: it is one thing to sleep with someone you've known for a few years in a one night affair. It is another thing to sleep with that person knowing you are about to seal the deal with your girlfriend via some form of domestic bliss (i.e. marriage, babies, getting back together, or home ownership). I guess the hope was we would never cross paths again . . . seriously. Seriously. Academics are a quasi-inbred group. It's not like I've never played those cards, walked away, or pretended I'd never seen the dude across from me naked while I made small talk with his wife, girlfriend, or what not.
As I keep saying: I am allergic to functional men. Clearly, since they have all cheated on me, and now they make me their last stop on the train. More so, they get stupider as I get older. So not cool.
On that note, I need to get back to my pen name. She has articles due, which translates out to making September's rent.
You get out of your funk and move back home, to the city of lights, dreams, dirty streets, and charm. Yes folks, I used charm in the same sentence with NYC. You spend the night in the Upper East Side visiting an old friend, go to a movie in the park ("Breakfast at Tiffany's" at Carl Shurtz Park was awesome), and you traipse with another friend to Coney Island to get just the right amount of vitamin D and sea salt. You make aquiantances in your neighborhood, you re-learn the subway--remembering a now funny hungover mishap as tourist in 1997 and attempt to not laugh like a loon while sitting on the Q--you figure out where the ATM is, you find the bread shop, and you learn to live in the winding streets and layers of your 'hood.
You entertain flirtations, you smile, you laugh, and you begin to think you have your game back. You have a failed summer romance, or somesuch. Then . . . then . . .
Then you find out that Jackass wasn't the only one to make you his last stop on the freedom train. Here is what I have to say: it is one thing to sleep with someone you've known for a few years in a one night affair. It is another thing to sleep with that person knowing you are about to seal the deal with your girlfriend via some form of domestic bliss (i.e. marriage, babies, getting back together, or home ownership). I guess the hope was we would never cross paths again . . . seriously. Seriously. Academics are a quasi-inbred group. It's not like I've never played those cards, walked away, or pretended I'd never seen the dude across from me naked while I made small talk with his wife, girlfriend, or what not.
As I keep saying: I am allergic to functional men. Clearly, since they have all cheated on me, and now they make me their last stop on the train. More so, they get stupider as I get older. So not cool.
On that note, I need to get back to my pen name. She has articles due, which translates out to making September's rent.
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