Four Options for Three Slots

Any given day offers Four Options-

Work. Social Life. Writing. Sleep.

Work and Sleep as far as I'm concerned are necessity, which leave me to choosing daily between Social Life or Writing.

7:27 am

So 9:30 at 50th & Broadway, right? The text message reads. Asshole, I txted my accompanying guide for today's tour that exact information last night! Why'd he have to ask me again, three delicious minutes before my alarm was set to go off? Dammit. That's three more seconds of lazy, frustrated non-sleep that I'm going to have to forgo. I leave a blue streak behind me as I trail from my bedroom, to the coffee-maker, to the shower.

12:31pm

Clever group this one is. Eighth graders from St. Louis, and a bright bunch too. One girl knew the punchline to my borough joke and said it before I could. (Anyone know what a Borough is? It's a small donkey! HA!) And then there's the kid who wanted to see my business card, and then passed it around so he and his buddies could all text message me mid-tour. Slick bastards these were. But this was the second group I'd gotten to walk through the newly half-traffic free Time's Square. And with clear skies, 68 degrees, and lawn chairs in Times fucking Square?? I've got nothing to complain about.

1:47pm

One tour down, and one to go! And after that, I'm going to the Anarchist Metalshop Block Party in Gowanus to see a home-made jet bike.

4:30pm

Christ in a Shit Bucket, I am FUCKING TIRED and there's NO WAY I'm going to a goddam Anarchist Metalshop Block Party, even if there is a home-made jet bike! I am biking my sorry ass across the Williamsburg Bridge and going straight HOME! Straight fucking ho- wait, is that Leslie? I didn't know she was in town, I'll stop for a minute and say hi.

5:39pm

Okay, now I'm going home. 

6:51pm

Two beers, a bowl,  a change of clothes and a few DVD featurettes later and I've decompressed from a New York Day. I've also been listening over and over and over to the truly magnificent song Young Liars by TV on the Radio and it's planted a rather intriguing flash-fiction story in my head. . . .