I'm like a shark on city streets. If I stop moving, I sink. This isn't meant to be a quaint metaphor, but rather an explanation of why I'm such an asshole when I walk. It's why I have such a vicious sense of entitlement when it comes to right of way. Forgive me, but when I'm listening to an awesome playlist, I move. My stride is always long and my patience always short. This doesn't always translate to a happy commute because as everyone knows, most people in New York walk too fucking slowly, particularly in the middle bits. They stop and stare. They dawdle. Sure, the sights are nice.
But have you ever gotten in a Park Avenue groove to Rage Against the Machine? Thin line between entertainment and war indeed.
It's kinda funny spending time on the Upper East Side again. I spent my formative years up there, and not much about the neighborhood has changed. Of course, I still perv the uniformed private school boys as they sneak off to smoke during lunch, but it was a helluva lot more appropriate when I too was in high school. The air is always rich with the smell of pears and pot. I don't mean the nice Kiehls pear like that which Babbers and A-Ford bought me on New Years, but rather the pungent Victoria's Secret variety that perfumed many a teenage makeout (not to mention the mingling of that with Eternity or Polo Sport, both of which make prominent appearances on my nightly walks home as well).
Anyway, my life has become a movie set.
Now I just need a good script. Brookie, let's write this.
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