Paint's Peeling.

Disclaimer: This piece has not been edited yet, and probably won’t be.

That is it, no subway riding alone past 11:30PM. It’s scary how exhaustion, can really just emotionally, and physically wipe you out. Life has consisted of the same, wake up, eat, work, write, fall asleep during writing- so in return- can erase write from the daily routine list. How is it- and why is it, that we as human’s run our bodies down till we have no fuel, can be so consumed in just getting by, yeah- we want to have it all, home life- work life, and time dedicated to hobbies. So we run our fucking immune system down till it has bacteria has conquered, till our bones can’t move, till we are reminded by our very own family members how wicked we have become. I can say, I have been corrupted by this modern life. Thinking about it makes me sick, it literally makes me nauseous, how my idea, to me, of how a “good day” ends, is knowing that I had no conflicts with people. Why? Yes, exactly. I am appalled. With people, people who you do favor’s for, go out of your way to make them feel comfortable, open your heart to, only to find out the disgusting, disappointing, lack of couth in them.

Back to the story, so- had a wonderful evening actually with a new friend, going home I was a tad tired, but was alright enough to endure the F train Brooklyn bound train. As soon I hit the seat, I fell right to sleep. Exhaustion and hunger causes a degree of unawareness, only for reality to hit you when it’s too late. As waking up to an unfamiliar territory as waking up- past your subway stop, in deep Brooklyn, by yourself, at 2:45AM, causes panic. Panic plus unawareness causes, me to leave my bag on the train! Realizing that my wallet, my well earned wallet, complete with compartments where you store very important cards, such as license, credit card, bank card, CVS CLUB CARD’s. Then I think what was in that bag? I forgot to mention, that with me, I also had a backpack- due to me leaving the apartment at 7AM, and not returning until 3AM, I like to pack myself “just in case” things, such as water, snack, chapstick, ect, “entertainment” things, such as my favorite book at the moment, notebook, and newspaper, and of course the “vitals” such as toothbrush, toothpaste, glasses, contact solution, ect ect.

SO- this particular day, I was all set to write, so I bring my notebook with me. Now, let me explain how important this notebook is, this 8-subject notebook, is my life. Literally, every thought of the day is in my notebook, every observation, is in my notebook, and a whole subject is dedicated to my journal entries. Words can not explain how important this notebook is to me, at the moment, my only sense of having something private. It’s just what keeps me going through the day. Everything great, everything horrible, it’s okay- it’s not horrible anymore after I document this, that is in my notebook, this 8-subject notebook was filled to the 7th subject, my work routines, that I have invested hours and hours of writing, and re-writing, brainstorm bubbles stashed away, I even take it to bed with me, and stash it under my pillow like a child secures their lost tooth, for the tooth fairy. And, also what was in my bag, was a very special book that was given to me, it had such great meaning to me, and when in need of inspiration, all I would have to do, is read the index to feel lifted. That book was in the bag. As well as the many pens I have collected from random places, they seem like no significance, but when I think about it, each pen gave me a different style of written, it was in the grip, the color ink, the circumference, click top- or manual? Ball-point easy glide? All of these qualities, I cherished. Much more was in this bottom-less bag. First step- call mother to cancel the cards, as by this point I was in a very panicked state, unable to manage in situation like this myself, when by myself. So cool, she was borderline calm about that- I actually am not exactly sure, as I hung up before the heightened questions could arise. Second, I think “oh, well the MTA should have some sort of 24 hour phone line that deals with situations like this all the time. Call one number, nothing, has to deal with this retched machine, expected that. Called the 1-800-number, my supposed “smart-phone” then turned into an “unintelligent-phone” the minute I actually needed the features, I was in problem-solve mode, “let’s do this”, I will report it, and get everything going. As soon as tried to dial this “1-800” number, my phone froze, and a ridiculous hour glass appeared on the screen. WHAT?!!! Get off my screen you untimely piece of sadness, go where you belong… on the Wizard of Oz! With the witch. Turns out the 1-800 number, wasn’t a 24 hour MTA card line. WHAT?!! HOW COULD THE FUCKING NYC MTA, NOT HAVE A 24 HOUR PHONE LINE. WHAT IS THIS! This is not St. Louis in the 1950’s, okay? This is New York City, post fucking Y2K. This needs to be fixed. Just then, I look up and see a 24-hour booth, at the subway, I said to myself “ohh please be helpful”. Goto the booth, some oversized perm pressed, nail-clacking, Bubbleyum chomping female sitting in that fishtank booth, I looked her in the eyes, not even thinking about my fear of eye contact, and say from the bottom of my heart, “Please, I lost my purse, on the train, please, is there anything you can do”? She replies with without hesitation “NO”. I think to myself “what, am I really in AMERICA right now?’ I said “Please, I had everything in there, there’s no one you can page?” “NO. The only thing you can do is to go down to Coney Island and see if it’s there when the rail conductor cleans the train, but it ain’t probably gonna be der.” I’m thinking to myself “what the fuck, how are you even worthy of a fucking name tag, you piece of chewed up mildewed moron bitch, it is fucking 2:45AM, I am by myself, and I am not going to fucking voyage to the fucking beach of Brooklyn to come in contact, with more illiterate bodies like you”. I replied, “Really? There’s no numbers, walky-talky channels, paging, that you can do, what about a LOST AND FOUND?!!!” She then says “Oh yeahhhhh, you could do that, sure” “WELL CAN I HAVE THE NUMBER?” She replies, “Oh, wait, dey closed on da weekends” As she shuffles around fucking disorganized scraps of celebrity pictures, and lined paper, I hear the Manhattan bound train, in which I need to hop on to get back to my apartment, due to my inconvenient slumber. I race upstairs, hop on, only to see two human bodies, 94% dead, laying horizontally, no shoes, no socks, filthy hoodies, homeless, that was the last straw, the release of water pours from my eyes. I just couldn’t get over this horror, how the fuck am I in America right now? The people, the lack of help, the deserted feel to this night. All I can do is hope my bag is returned to the lost and found, all I want is my notebook, that is all. Cut up my wallet, and make an arm cuff bracelet, sport my bag like you own it, but please just give back the notebook.