Jan 21, 2006 12:13 AM
It took me two hours to get home. The R train doesn't run late. I need the R train. I need it more than sex (although it's close). The R train stops on 63rd street, which is near where I live. The helpful lady at the MTA desk told me to take the V train to 14th St./Union Station and then transfer to the 6, which I should take uptown to 51st street and then transfer to the F, which would take me to Rego Park, which is where I needed to go. I was excited about getting to ride on the 6, because this is the train that J. Lo (Jennifer Lopez) took from the Bronx during her days as a "dancer." She named her first hit album after this train, and I rode on it. I wonder if this means I will now stumble upon a lucrative career as an actress and singer.
I had a long, boring, step-by-step diatribe about how I eventually found my way home using wit and smarts and a map, but all you really need to know is that I asked some nice ladies what the fuck I should do, and they told me "Oh, the E stops local after midnight. Take that one." Lesson learned: when I am coming home late, I want to take the fucking E train, not the fucking R train.
Tonight Jen and I fucked shit up in the city. We went to the Trailer Park and ate 40 dollars worth of food that probably cost that place about 5 bucks to make, seeing as every dish involved, in some way, Velveeta. I asked if they were hiring (because I need a job more than sex, although it's close), and the waitress slapped me in the face and said "no, you cunt." She didn't really slap me, but she might as well have, because she was rude as hell. She slapped me with words, and it really stung when I had to tip her six bucks. Then we walked 800 miles to go to Rififis, which I am sure I am spelling incorrectly. It was busting at the seams with annoying hipsters, and Jen and I measured how many fingers we could get down our jeans and concluded that no, in fact, our pants were NOT tight enough and they probably wouldn't let us in. We decided to walk 800 more miles to go to The Magician ("Where the Magic Happens!"). The Magician is usually quiet, and it elicits a horny Pavlonian response because the first time I drank there resulted in getting laid on several different occasions by several different people. That bar is good luck for my pussy. Not tonight, though, because it too was wall to wall with young folk with nice hair and we left immediately. We finally settled on a place…something about a living room or something, and I had water because I was damn thirsty after all that walking. It was a good first night in the city. I do wish I lived in a better area though, because the walk from the subway stop to my apartment is FUCKING TERRIFYING. I am convinced that the only thing that prevented me from getting attacked was how I kept whispering "Please Jesus, you can't let me get raped on my third night here. Wait a few months." Don't tell my mom – she'll make me come home.
