The harpies of the MTA are at it again,
hooting and hollering about the misappropriation of express and local stops.
Even the advertisements, unable to speak, bellow racist propaganda of impoverished cell phone plans and divorce law only available in the depressed foreign language of the train's respective denizens.
Push out push marketing, and pull in my belly because we're in Chelsea now and shit is starting to get real.
And by real, I mean real fake and diluted, making a reality no amount of metabolism can maintain beyond age 43.
PowerBars and power lunches where neither are eaten, but both have their place.
If I wanted a caste, I'd move to New Delhi.
And if I want to be cast, I will eat that cobb salad with the man old enough to be my father, tell him it's delicious, and pretend to enjoy something so foul as Diet Coke.
I will never like "diet" anything as long as it continues to deny me the flavor real life has to offer.
Stop lying to yourself: IT DOES TASTE DIFFERENT!
Epoisses smacks of a life I aspire to lead.
I will eat this beet and rejoice in the heat of freshly grated horseradish stinging my tongue.
I am more alive than these Grecian specimen wandering 8th Avenue because I am proud to say who I am:
I am Nathan's cheddar cheese and bacon french fries on the boardwalk of Coney Island, filling up on saturated fat and remorse for the freak who just moved to New York from Algeria and allows pimply-faced Jersey children to shoot at him with a paintball gun.
I am crushed by my desire to be the wax curling the mustache of the sideshow host's face, crippled by the prospect of him running his rough fingers over me.
And for all that vulnerability I am never going to give in to soy milk.
I like my milk whole.
Like me.
