More Adventures In Public Transportation

I just got really nervous because Marty was on Grinder, and the doorbell mysteriously rang while I was blasting Cyndi Lauper. I half expected a man with whole grain tortilla chips and homemade salsa to burst through the door, but it was just my roommate. However, it would be my fault for consecutively playing “Into the Nightlife” and “Jai Ho,” thus giving away our exact location.

Its been one of those weeks where you feel like it should be Thursday night already…but it’s Tuesday. A day when you’ve eaten nothing but carbs and sugar, making you question your humanity, or what you have added to the world other than a carbon footprint and inappropriate tweets.

While I ponder my existence and everything I shouldn’t have contributed to the vast and terrible world of social media, I have to admit it’ll be nice to head back to campus...if only for the social atmosphere. The school work not so much, but at this point I feel like I can get away with being a pretentious bitch in class. Or simply drink the pain away when my Freudian branded vegan restaurant doesn’t go over well in critique. (True story)

I can always preemptively drop out and produce some sort of bastardized sleep aid in lieu of a diploma. How amazing would a melatonin candy necklace be? It would be fabulous to give to children, turning nap time into an obligation rather than some sort of petty fight. In an oversaturated market, this qualifies as a necessary item.

We waste so much of our lives sleeping. Our lives are too short as it is, and it’s hard enough to accomplish everything we need to do in the few years we’re given, let alone during the light of day.

Monday night a friend from school called me at midnight to tell me he wanted to go to late night bars in NYC. He and a friend then proceeded to drive from Philadelphia in an hour and 45 minutes, and we hit up a bar in Times Square until it closed. It was one of those bars where men go to cheat on their wives in the middle of the night, trying to literally recapture a youth. I saw a few cougars as well, but they were far too wasted to hit on any of the guys I came with. I despise Times Square in its entirety, but I haven’t spent a lot of time drinking there and I wanted to check out everything available to me within the short amount of time I have left in NYC.

On that note, with the summer winding down and the depressing inevitability of labor day fashion laws destroying an eighth of my wardrobe, Brittany and I decided we needed one last hurrah at the beach this past weekend.

Jones beach was the closest and far cheaper than the Hamptons, so after a brief encounter with our personal shopper at Anne’s Boutique (located within the Hell’s Kitchen Flea Market) we ran to Penn Station with Steph to catch a train to Long Island. I say run but really I was quickly walking while Brittany sprinted on her tiny midget legs. We barely made the train, but the stress was well worth our delightful ride. We got to pass by exotic locations such as “Jamaica,” and “Queens” and watch a gaggle of Swedes devour an entire buffet in the seats in front of us. It was the International experience IHOP strives to provide but falls short upon.

We caught the bus from the station to the beach, and once again were subjected to the beauty and elegance that is public transportation. There were small children climbing everywhere and the bus engine died, stranding us on some g-dforsaken road until another one picked us up. Then one of the aforementioned small children was left on the other bus, but I’m assuming it got out alive because we saw it a few hours later.

The beach was somewhat cloudy and like every other outing I experience with Brittany, we were verbally sexually harassed by every ethnicity under the sun.

We have had little to no luck with dealing with people on a whole this entire summer. The night before we were accosted by drunken random’s at the Bowery Hotel, who in the midst of casual conversation made it a point to mention that they were multi-millionaires and then scream at the wait staff across the room.

After quickly exiting that scene, we stood on a street corner contemplating our next move. Within moments another group of randoms were asking us to come smoke with them, and then one of them asked out Brittany. While I often speak of slut magic (which I plan to conduct my senior thesis upon, Drexel don't you dare try and stop me) I think there is something to be said of midget magic. I haven't encountered it before, but so far it has proven to be a fascinating case. Whatever it is, it hasn't enabled Brittany to walk faster.