Today, as I walked down the N and R uptown platform in Union Square station, I saw a man walking in the opposite direction drinking a bottle of San Pellegrino as if it were a bottle of champagne on New Year’s Eve, and I thought to myself, man, that’s a classy person.

I hid the the bathroom just off the slot machine floor in Bally’s, and decided to take a dump, which was like hitting the jackpot.

I’m on my way to DC, and I see crap for miles and miles.

Sunday. 4:59 p.m.

The world around me condensed into one Target store. People of every race, ethnicity, gender, and social strata all descended upon the store to line up for bread sticks at Pizza Hut Express, for Hannah Montana 1gb flash drives, for Rayovac batteries with free High School Musical trading cards enclosed, for PS2 Black Axes, for pink furry digital picture frames, along with all the normal groceries that get bought at the local supermarket. They crowd the registers and clog the aisles, just for the sake of crowding and clogging, to give the 50 year old man standing out in the cold to direct traffic in the parking lot and divert cars between the entrance and the drive-thru for the McDonald’s/Starbucks

 Saturday.  11:59 p.m.

I sat in a chair, typing words into sentences, then forming sentences into paragraphs, with the hope that some short story or idea would result. I had no audience, no one to entertain except my own brain. Writing was the only addiction I had left to indulge freely, without fear of recourse or negative health benefits. I got no other high from anywhere else. Writing made me look forward to train rides home, and it forced me to look carefully at the world around me just in case a spark of inspiration lit my heart and brain afire.

I had plenty to write about, but I feared the need for organization, for clarity of thought. I do my best now to push that fear aside. I move boldly into this world of writing down my thoughts once again, and perhaps re-writing old thoughts again, with some years of experience under my belt.