Dear G Train: F!*&ing Blow Me

God. Oh my God. It's 8:45 and I'm pacing around like a crazy person on the subway platform again. The G train, man. The fucking G train. It's gone from mild annoyance to genuine outrage to pure, paranoid obsession. Everything, I mean everything, wrong with my life can be traced back to this train.

I suppose the real story of the G train is the lowering of standards, the ever-shifting boundaries of what one deems appropriate.

In no way, for example, does this engage with motherfucking reality:

Dear G Train: F!*&ing Blow MeS


Ohmigod, let's see! To get to work in SoHo I can take the B61 to the L to the 6. Or maybe the B43 to the JMZ, if I'm feeling wild! Fuck you.

I blame the G train for everything; it's so much easier that way. Being late. Getting arrested. The spotty trajectory of my career thus far. Above all, my mental health. Is it a conspiracy? Why else would it not come for over forty minutes yesterday morning... DURING RUSH HOUR?

And now my chiropractor is mad at me. But I need the G train to fucking access his office! I've been trying to get there for three days!

Anyway, last weekend I looked at apartments. In different neighborhoods. In Manhattan. There was a 10X10 windowless room (at market rates!) in Chinatown that I found particularly appealing: it was right above a bar and the F train. Fuck you very much.

"For here are a million people surly with traffic." -Ezra Pound