Last night New York wailed and screamed like that neglected Puerto Rican kid in the stroller on the L train. That one that was thrashing back and forth and screaming, trying to use friction and anger to burn through her seatbelt while her mom supported our entire section with Raggaeton beats. Just the beats.
So mom’s got her eyes locked on her reflection in the window, mouthing monotonously, like it’s her job. Like, “Shit, I don’t really wanna be on the Daddy Yankee Karaoke shift tonight, but fuck, somebody’s gotta do it.” And obviously, baby can’t believe this shit. Baby’s getting more and more riled up with every ounce of brat energy that’s going unnoticed, “Um, girl please don’t tell me I’m waiting this Oscar-worthy shit.” No she didn’t say that. But it was part of the inner monologue I wrote for her*.
*To purchase complete inner monologue please send credit card info to email@example.com along with a postage-paid e-mail envelope.
So having made eye contact with bratty-town a couple times and tried failingly to reform her personality defects with a warm stare and genuine head tilt…I thought to myself, “Fuck- why not crank the i-pod? Captain Mc. Cry Cry can cry me a river, build me a bridge and get over it.” (ßThat was an expression I single handedly popularized in middle school- while quaffing my mushroom cut and tucking in my shirt to look more like Erick from the Little Mermaid. It’s a miracle I too didn’t get sperminated at the time.)
I stepped off the L, heading for the A on my way to my friends D-A-N-C-E recital. And I’m waiting on the platform. And we’re all waiting on the platform. And I’m pretending not to stare while totally staring at Scott Adsit (30 Rock, The Informant, UCB dude) and calculating a good time to go up to him and introduce myself. Because that’s what I do when I see celebrities: I introduce myself (not including that Jennifer Love Hewitt time*.)
**To purchase the entire Jennifer Love Hewitt Time Story, please clip out this section of this story and email to firstname.lastname@example.org along with a white plastic bag.
Finally, the MTA announcer decides for me, announcing, “Due to the (heinous) weather conditions- the A will not be running at this time.” What followed was standard, a quick look around to calculate who your competition was and then a bolt up the stairs to be part of the lucky 10% of your straggler-peers to score a cab. Before entering the race I coolly looked over at the object of my stare-fection and said, “Hey Scott. You’re wonderful- wanna share a cab uptown?” to which he resonded, “Thanks that’s so nice of you- but no.”
I’m not angry. I’m not offended. I’m not worried that perhaps in my 24th year in this planet my image has evolved into something not far from that of an obsessed Salena fan club leader. I keep on truckin’.
Obv, by the time I truck up to ground level there are zero cabs available. And yes, I meant for that to read sort of like ground zero. Because the weather is tragic. It’s wailing. It’s saying, “I was spitting before Manhattan. I was spitting before and you didn’t even give a shit so look what I got for you now!”
With no prejudice, Mother Nature pulled down her elastic-waist pants and shat strands of hard hitting rain-diareah on the city that never knows when to stay in and fuckin’ sleep. And I was one of those idiots that didn’t listen. I was one of those idiots that put on the earbuds of life and cranked my Raggaeton while bitch tried to tell me tonight would be Armageddon Preview Night.
I walked around drenched. The show was halfway done. At this point it was about finding my friend Rachel so that we could have a drink at a bar and pretend we’d fooled the system, “It was all worth it, muahaha!”
I guess what I’m trying to say it: if your baby’s having a seizure in her stroller- it’s probs best to try out a variety of stares and lines to deal with the tantrum. And if Mother Nature tells you it’s gonna be a wild one- don’t be stoopid. Bust out the scrabble, pull up the Netflix and Chill The Fuck Out***.
***For more on Chilling The Fuck Out please visit www.sabrinajalees.com