Coming back to NYC after a week away really makes you realize how much it smells like pee, and how much the smell of urine has become a smell of home.
Some middle school friend of a friend found us at a bar and demanded/exclaimed “Beyond any sexual fantasy anyone might have, feel my ass.” I want that to symbolize the trip so here’s my attempt at forcing some shitdrivel.
I sit on the subway writing this as the R train screams slowly down the tracks. Two people have been forced to plug their ears out of pain. At home a British friend who is visiting has accidentally fallen asleep on my roommates bed making me feel guilty for forcing her into our home but also for how disgusting my bed is – therefore not making it a viable option to rest one’s head in unless that head is filled with the self obsessed ramblings of a lazy neurotic. New York smells like urine, remember.
Charlotte was full of friends, parents who tried to force kindess on me in a way that made me so comfortable I couldn’t feel uncomfortable (that sentence is profound not stupid – you’re stupid) and it was cheap and fun.
New York has always been and still is my fantasy. Partially this is because only here can I hone my comedic skills so often and for so many people, but partially because my fantasies include the romanticized idea of filth – of the struggling artists with morals but no means. When we fantasize, sexually, we fantasize about body parts all over but one of those is typically the ass. I love a good ass. The ass is also a thing that has been referred to by my dad as “the shit factory.” The ass is gross, but that’s part of the fantasy. We may not want to believe tat poop factors into our masturbation habits, but we like to be so sexually and emotionally connected that we are willing to get down with the dirtiest part of the person. It is beyond our sexual fantasies – feel my ass.