1. Here’s me attempting to write about nothing, basically

    Okay, so here’s the scenario. I’m standing at Broadway and Washington Place, waiting for the bus. In between bouts of peering through the Gallatin lobby windows to check in on the 70 year-old lady drifting around the reception for the “Sexposed” fashion show, I enjoy watching the other students who walk by or stand and chat as they wait too (I’m not chatting because of my No Friends Syndrome, I’ve got a card in my wallet and a dog tag and everything.)

    Since it’s prime bus-waiting time, the crowd is building. NYU would rather spend our freshman year teaching us how to close-read ledgers of dried tuna shipments in the 1700’s than, like, how to not be a dickhole, so most people sorta peel away from the wall and scattershot themselves across the sidewalk. This, of course, is the elitist sort of behavior that we NYU students are known for, and the plebes do their best to snake through the crowds.

    Well one girl, let’s call her Mayo (first thing that came to mind, sorry, I’m hungry [for condiments]) finishes her conversation happening five feet in front of me. She says goodbye, presumably farts, (who doesn’t?) and takes a few steps toward my left before FULL STOP. She freezes and gazes toward the heavens. She’s obviously thinking about something important like that fish ledger report she needs a couple more lines of Adderall to finish tonight, or cake, or farts.

    As she stops, a kind-hearted man (I could tell the nature of his heart by looking at him, that’s what happens when you’re a professional Arbiter of Souls) gets halted right behind her. Dude is just trying to get home to his kids. It’s been a long day, he’s got a long walk, and with him working all the time the kids are overdue for some kind-hearted blows to the head. He tries to get Mayo’s attention so he can squeeze by on her right as opposed to taking the long way around some other clueless bros, but she is not having ANY of this situational awareness bullshit. He tries for four seconds but she is still staring DIRECTLY UP INTO THE SKY. (hoping for an Adderall monsoon)

    Once this man figures out that she would be a terrible ninja, he gives up appealing to her perception and goes the long way. As he does this, Mayo slops (heh now the name is affecting the verb) a step into his path. Almost colliding with her again, he offers her a smile and a mumbled apology (unless he called her the c-word [child-molester], I can’t read lips) and this time she notices him. How could she not? He’s in Mayo’s PERSONAL SPACE.

    As he attempts to glide by her and retain his dignity (which is tough, because he’s in Mayo’s aura and she clearly hates black people and is farting,) she makes a face.

    A FACE.

    It looked like this:

    (she’s making a thumbs up because it’s habitual for me so lay off)

    She makes this face to some other people, like “can you believe that dude? He almost brushed against me.” She, who sat like a rock covered in mayo in this guy’s path. She, who is already jerking to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk like an epileptic powerwalker. She, who at the top of this interaction was already STANDING IN A BUSY ROAD FOR PEOPLE USING THEIR LEGS WHICH IS JUST AS STUPID AS STANDING IN A BUSY ROAD FOR CARS USING THEIR WHEELS OR A BUSY LASER-TUNNEL FOR LASERS LASERING THEIR LASER BEAMS

    So I killed her with a sword. She could barely even fart before her body sloshed to the earth. Don’t stop on the sidewalk without looking around.

    la la LA this is how deep the bitterness barrel goes xoxo yall~

  2. "Walker"

                Jeeeeesus,” I hummed through gritted teeth, already pocketed by the other patrons. Stairways should be wider than two abreast. To be trapped behind these meandering nobodies, swaying like they lift their legs using the opposite shoulder, feels like an attack on my own freedom; life, liberty, and pursuit of walking at a comfortable clip. One step. Two step.

                I had to run for the C train. We both arrived at my home stop at the same time, but it pulls down the platform because the train is too short to fill it all. Three step. Four step.

                It meant that I was not in optimal exit position when the train got to Spring, and could only outpace about half of the passengers on their way to my surface stairs. Five step. Six step.

                Out from the subway overhang, the rain tapped on my face to remind me that I had no room to open my umbrella. I could be opening it into one of these suckers, and as thrilling a moment that’d be, some red-nosed depressed dad taking out his extra coffee energy on a shouting match with me would only break pace.

                I was just a couple blocks away thanks to long strides through the rain and down the near-greasy sidewalk, but I had ended up behind a grandma who had seemingly lost all will to live. Why even walk at all at this point? I hadn’t noticed how quickly I was gaining on her, but that’s to be expected when she’s doing the mummy shamble, and now there were two even streams of clueless dipwads in the oncoming direction, cutting around the crone and giving me no room to even dart off the sidewalk. Each time I tried, I got caught up in an oncomer’s eye contact, and my leg moved outwards for escape but my foot twisted inward at the last second to stop myself from possibly bumping him. A collision would leave me looking no better than the crone.

                “C’mon c’mon c’mon…” I might as well have tapped it out in Morse Code with my teeth.

                I practically vaulted off the sidewalk. If she’s going to “fucking comandeer the sidewalk, then,” (said to myself as I vaulted) then I’ll take my efforts to the other side. Smooth sailing.

                As I stepped into Roots Cafe, shaking off my umbrella, my rustling seemed louder than the entire body of patrons. Typing away, fingers flying, safe in their etiquette-constructed cubicles, and I whipped off my hoodie, aware of the sweat on my forehead and pinpricking on the front of my thighs. Wet from rain, wet from effort, disgusting. Once my breathing slowed, I whipped out my cellphone from my front jeans pocket. 11:55 AM.

                I would have preferred to be two minutes later, but maybe I could delay my coffee order until Sal arrived.

  3. I’m somehow a blisteringly fast walker, and I can’t really help it. That said, I don’t think it’s unjust of me to murder those who walk four-abreast on the frozen sidewalks of Manhattan. Yes, it may be awkward for one of the group to stagger himself ahead of his friends, but it’s more awkward when I start handing out kidney-punches left and right.