monse estas loca

“…because the music that they constantly play, it says nothing to me about my life.”

Today I trudged to work in the rain. I spent a total of eight hours in an office drowning in Broadway show merchandise, perusing social networking websites and harassing my boyfriend in an instant message. At noon, as I was deciding which trashy gossip site to visit next I was asked to deliver Cuban cigars to the heads of some fellow production companies. I handed off the last box to the last cheery secretary at 2:15pm and I trudged back to work. I ate a sandwich at 2:30pm. Turkey and avocado. When 5:57pm rolled around I packed my belongings, shut down my computer, and pushed past the various strollers, lost tourists, wide eyed school children, sad eyed corporate employees, and wet dogs to the train station. I entered and made my way through the same crowd I encountered above ground to the R train. I rode all 28 blocks facing the sweaty arm pit of a large Russian man. When I got off at my stop at 6:30pm I remained trapped behind what I am convinced was a group comprised of every elderly Asian woman in New York City carrying giant plastic bags and a leaning on canes (maybe there was a convention?). As I emerged from this hell mouth not unlike the way I emerged from my mother’s womb: sweaty and confused but thankfully not naked, I was hit with the sweet stench of moldy produce and dog shit. At 6:48pm my keys fell on the floor and at 6:49pm they fell on the floor again. At 6:55pm I hit the showers. At 7:05pm I realized it could actually be worse, three seconds later I resolved that tomorrow is another day and 15 seconds after that I banged my toe on my dresser…really hard.