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My Name Is NYC, IF You Are and I Am A Low Functioning Stoner

I have late classes on monday. They start at three and end around eight. I woke up at six monday morning. I pressed two glasses of coffee, and then started stretching. I did some pull ups on my Iron Gym, and then I did some push ups on my bedroom carpet. I took a brief shower and dressed to go running. Sweat pants, running shoes, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. I drank one cup of coffee and then twenty ounces of water. I found my ipod, and my keys, and left my apartment to start my 3 mile campaign. Once outside, I turned on my ipod and found a playlist I had assembled the night before, “Monday Run.” I walked across the street to Riverside Park and began jogging.I ran from 115th to 113th before turning around and going home.

It was too cold. Instead I would smoke a bowl, and lay on my couch, drink coffee and watch two hours of The Cleavland Show. I can’t say it was what I had planned for the day, but it turned out quite well. Around one I realized I should start dressing for school. I also realized I was still pretty stoned. I found a pair of socks, pulled my jeans out from a pile of clothes, and dressed for the cold. I took two naps while getting dressed. I fall into the category of  ‘low-functioning pot smoker.’

I take the red line directly to school, and it takes me 45 minutes to get there. I use this opportunity to catch up on reading. I had Jonathan Lethem’s new book “Chronic City” on me. I started searching for the page where I had last left off when the irony of the title dawned on me and I began loudly laughing to the dismay of the Dominican grandmothers who I had wedged myself between in the packed car.

My first class was Art Survey. I walked into class late because I had to stop and get a Jamba juice. My professor was going over her syllibus and I took a seat against the wall. She started showing slides, and giving us vocabulary for describing art. ” Do you guys see the LINES in this Picasso? Notice how Poussin uses COLOR and FORM.” Yes, I did. “Does anyone have anything to add?” I felt that I’d made a bad impression, arriving in class late, and figured this was a better opportunity than ever to make up for it.

“I have something to add” I spent the next five minutes of class monologuing about landscape painting, and a trip I had taken to the MET during the Poussin show in 2008. I talked about what color REALLY MEANS, whatever that means, and how I FELT about form. I talked about who I was, and how it was funny that we’re all sitting in a room looking at slides of paintings.

I scribbled this in my notes “sitting here in art survey, my young female professor is huddled around her textbook, aiming her nerd specs at the letters on the page. She is quietly reading and chewing on her hair.”

Between classes I stopped at the library to use my laptop. My friend Soan tapped on my shoulder, and we talked about our winter breaks. We talked about travel, and girls, money, and responsibility. We went for a cup of coffee at the Barnes and Noble cafe down the street.

Sitting in French 102, my teacher began calling roll. She called my name, and asked me to tell the class about myself, but in french. “ah, oui, Je muh-pelle  ——, and, no I mean ‘et’ , ET- j’aime uhm biking and stuff.” fuck. After the attendance was taken, I opened my book bag to pull out my notebook. I noticed that my laptop was not in my bag. I stood up, knocking a glass bottle off of an older haitain woman’s desk. It burst open on the floor throwing glass and peach juice everywhere. “Sorry” I said. I ran to the library, my mind racing with the thought of a student plucking my laptop off of the desk which I had so haphazardly left it. Fucking asshole! How could I forget my laptop? Did I? My pace slowed wit realization. I brought my charger, and I brought my mouse. Did I even bring my laptop today? I walked back to where I had been sitting in the library, still doubtful, but too embarrassed to ask the front desk if someone had found a laptop which did not exist. Leaning against the desk, I stretched my calves, and quads, as if I had just finished exercising. ‘yep, done.’ I walked back to class slowly, grabbing some napkins from the bathroom on the way.

That night I would find my laptop opened on my couch, frozen on a still of the Cleavland Show. A bear wearing a shirt, and a tie, and a chubby black kid crying. I knocked my running shoes out of the way, and began taking off my boots. Best monday ever!


My Roommate Fucking Sucks

My roommate Alison fucking sucks. And here’s why:

1. The Snark of a Genius

Firstly, I should mention that Alison is a guy. Perhaps if he was a female I wouldn’t be so outwardly ferocious towards him in my rantings. Well, perhaps not. Anyway, I interviewed with Alison before I moved in to be the new roommate. It went like this:
Alison: So you don’t have to make a year commitment. You can do 6 months.
Me: Yeah, 6 months would be better.. To see if I can acclimate to the environment, you know?
A: Acclimate hm, that’s a good word (takes a swig of milk from the fridge) Haven’t used that one in like (pause, looks me straight in the eyes) two weeks.
He possesses all the quirks, and snark of a genius without the privelage of actually being one. This was definitely a red flag, and I should have known that our personalities would inevitably clash. But everyone deserves a second chance, right? Well.

2. Tangent Lectures

Alison goes on these tangent lectures where he breaks off from what appears to be casual, docile conversation, and begins these hyper political, eccentric rants.
Me: Man, I’m fucking beat from class. Seriously exhausted.
Alison: The government is in a downswing right now. People are investing money into a business structure that’s not going to exist in 50 years.
Me: Yes, Goodnight.
These lectures started just a few days in to my occupancy. I’d invited my girlfriend over for the night and we were in the middle of a quiet dinner. “Why astroids and humans have the same DNA” wasn’t exactly the dinner conversation I had in mind.

3. Alison Is A Mooch

My roommate Robert and I cooked lunch together the other day. I made some hot mustard chicken with garlic and scallions, and Rob made a pot of rice with kale and Cabbage. Enter Alison.
A: Hey guys, got some stir fry goin’ on here?
me: Yeah man. Do you want some?
A: Yeah. (casually looking away and yawning.) I think I’m gunna have a little bit.
What a pleasant way of saying thank you. he proceeded to finish off the rest of the food.

4. Alison Is In Love With My Room

After a day of class, or being gone for the weekend I will come home to find that my room has been altered, shuffled some how. A sock that was on the floor is now on my bed. My laundry bag which sat by the closet is now hanging on a hook by my door. I’ll even come home to find new things in my room. A book on my bureau that is not mine, 2 tennis balls sitting atop my bedside table. I’m been trying to decipher the intention behind these actions and objects. Is he pointing out my personal slobbery, while rewarding future cleanliness? Positive tennis ball reinforcements? Maybe he’s just fucking around in my room while I’m gone. Dear god, I hope he’s not jacking off in my bed.

5.This Morning

I woke up to the sound of two men screaming at each other. One of them was Alison. I recognized his particular whine. The other voice I didn’t recognize.
A: You know what man, just get your stuff and leave. I’m sick of you.
There was a loud banging on my door
?: Hey man, I need to get into your room.
It was Alison’s friend, and Ex Roommate. He had left a lot of his stuff in my closet and was picking it up. He began packing his clothes, and various belongings into plastic bags.
Ex Roomie: you’re doing the right thing moving out.
I was sitting on the edge of my bed, my head in my hands.
me: I become more and more aware of that, every passing day, thank you.
Ex Roomie: You’re doing the right thing.
me: Yes (pause) I know.
He left my room and I closed the door behind him, and got back in bed. A few minutes later I am awoken once again by heavy knocking.
Ex Roomie: You should come out here man, you need to be made aware of something!
I oblige. I don’t know why. It may be my terrible sense of humor, which allows me to put myself in such volatile situations. As if a practical joke is being played on me, and I’m participating for my own gratification. I sit on the edge of the living room couch.
me: Okay, what?
A: He’s just spouting off at the mouth man, it’s nothing.
Ex Roomie: No, Listen. Alison has someone moving in in October.
A: Don’t listen to him man.
me: Wait, that’s fine. I’m moving out. I thought we talked about this.
Ex Roomie: You should be aware.
A: Don’t listen to him man!
me: I don’t know what’s going on, to be perfectly honest. Guys, I’m sick, and it’s early, so leave me the fuck alone please.
A: Listen, he’s just spouting off at-
me: STOP!

I wasn’t planning on publishing this particular blog until after I moved out, but  the more I thought about it the more I realized I should post it now. It is more sincere, and it’s that much more funny to think that as you’re reading this I’m living in TOTAL SUCK! By the way, I’m fully aware that it is in bad taste to post someone’s real name and picture, but if you’re going to eat my food, and invade my privacy there’s really no holding back. Don’t eat my food. The end.

Hypochondriac, But Only By Association

I had a physical done earlier this month. My doctor gave me the usual: took some blood, had my boys looked at, knocked them around a little (that’s part of the usual, right?). You know the deal. About two weeks passed and I received a voicemail:

Hey um, This is Dr.X-X-X-X. And I have your (pause), I have your blood results here. And, well (pause) give me a call, or I’ll call you back soon.

fuck. What’s with all the pauses? So I’ve developed this terrible habit of putting off  bad news, regardless of its inevitability. Didn’t do well spring semester? Wait ’til fall semester to check my grades. Think I might’ve overdrawn a few bucks in my bank account? Wait til I start receiving letters to find out.

And I also happen to be a Hypochondriac, but only by association. I was raised by my mother, my mother’s mother, and my sister. Three legit, hardcore Hypochondriacs. For the first decade+change of my life my mother used to sneak vitamin powder into my sandwiches (taking three bites of a ham and cheese, and then on the fourth tasting eat wax is so much fun) almost sure that I would contract some forgotten disease; the plague or yellow fever at school (which is ridiculous because asian girls have never tickled my fancy.) My sister, when she would visit from college would try to convince me that I could get AID’s from staring at some skanky looking bitch the wrong way. And whenever I would visit as a child, my grandmother would force me to chug fish oil, and chew on flax seeds. She was the alternative medicine Hypochondriac in the family. So, more or less I’m the direct product of my sickeningly paranoia inducing environment.

So because of my Once-Removed-Hypochondria I refrained from calling my doctor back, and all the possible ailments I may have had began to fester in my mind. I became more, and more distrought with fear, sickened by the idea that I was a walking, talking germ vessel. At one point I was sure I was dying. If I coughed too hard I thought my dick would fall off.  if I was feeling particularly jumpy I was sure I had MS. If I hadn’t pissed all day I’d start fingering my prostate (kidding?)

It eventually got so bad that I could no longer screen my doctors phone calls and decided one day that I had to pick up. Maybe it was time sensitive, perhaps there was an antidote! Turns out I have a “slight leaky heart.” which is “borderline standard, and completely normal.” Now I just feel like a bitch. I mean a leaky heart aint very manly.

Then again I’m just glad my dick didn’t fall off.

Kanye/A.Rose Celebrity Scoop

I usually don’t do this type of thing but tonight was a slow night, and I just happened to come across the biggest celebrity scoop to hit the corner of Blog&who gives a fuck .

First pictures of Amber Rose and Kanye West TOGETHER, if you catch my drift.

picture 1

picture 2

I’ll be back to regular posting soon-nycifyouare

The Chair Kicking Tranny

I went to see District 9 with my girlfriend Friday. We went to the theater on 68th and Broadway and decided to see a late show, so we could walk around Lincoln Center for a few hours. There happened to be a live performance going on outside of Damrosch park. I think it was World Music. but to be honestly, I’m not really sure what World Music is.

I think it has something to do with being latino and having long hair, while simultaneously wearing a robe and a pair of moccasins. There are usually pan-flutes, or tambourines involved. However, that could just be my clouded American intellect speaking for me. Who invented the term World Music anyway? Another characteristic of World Music, though not a qualifying factor is, it is usually accompanied by some sort of dancing, long haired, tye-dyed person. And this particular show wasn’t lacking. We sat on the benches by the bar, and took in our fair share of World Music, and eratic hippie dancing. At around 9ish we made our way over to the theater to watch the movie. We bought our soda pop and skittles, hid them in our bags (who the hell can afford food from the movie thearter these days? Not this intern), and took our seats, ready to enjoy the movie. I have to say, I wasn’t exactly excited to see the show. I thought the premise of District 9, as presented in the trailer, seemed pretty typical,  and the viral campaign looked really cartoony to me. I was happily surprised.

D-9 Poster/Ghetto Thing lookalike

Before the movie began, as the ‘Unscriptables’ and ‘Who Said It?’ questions were still being projected onto the screen, we heard some commotion coming from the row behind us.

“Is that seat taken? Hello!? No? Aright”-Ghetto Thing said, in her Bonquiqui accent.

One that I had become quite accustomed to by the neighborhoods where I buy my weed. A tall figure, with broad shoulders, tits, and an adams apple,  began shuffling towards a middle seat. When no one stood up to assist her by, Ghetto Thing retored with a loud teeth sucking, punctuated with a comical “RUDE.” She sat by herself. I was surprised, as she seemed like quite the prize.

The lights dimmed and the trailers began. We decided which movies looked good, and which looked fucking stupid. We decided which ones we would watch shitty copies of on the internet, and which ones we would wait for to come out on DVD. Then the movie began. We took our skittles and soda out of our bags and reclined further into our chairs for maximum movie enjoyment. A few minutes into the movie I start feeling a light kicking against the back of my seat. This is, honestly, one of my biggest pet peeves. One of those things that I knew. if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up blowing up over. So I tried to relax, teling myself it was totally un-intentional, and went back to the movie. Ten minutes later ::THUMP:: A hard kick. WHAT THE FUCK.. well , maybe the guys foot slipped. Calm down… it’s no big deal. ::THUMP THUMP:: At this point I’m not even paying attention to the movie. I’m just getting more and more upset. I turn to my girlfriend.

“Who the fuck is sitting behind me?”I whispered.

“It’s that ghetto chick from earlier.” she said, matter of factly, as if to say who else?

“Oh shit, you mean the tranny?”

“mhm, that’s the one.”

I turn back to the movie, suddenly realizing I was in a delicate situation. As a rule, I don’t pick fights with women. Some might call that sexist, but it was just the way I was brought up. It doesn’t make sense to me to pick on someone physically smaller than I am. Then again Ghetto Thing was at least a foot above my head, and had the shoulders of a linebacker. And was she really a woman? Should I take into consideration whether she was post-op or pre op? Maybe I should’ve asked.

Excuse me. yes, excuse me Miss. Did you have your dick cut off yet? I’m not certain as to whether I should scream at you or not.

All things considered, I told myself to not worry about it. Just to sit back and enjoy the rest of the movie... But then that  little voice in the back of my head had to get a word in. Yo. this dude thinks you’re a chump. I mean lookat’m.. Sitting there all smug by herself. Knows you’re just trying to have a good time with your girlfriend. Just tryna fuck your shit up. For some reason, that voice in the back of my head is from the Bronx, even though I was born in queens.

That little voice always gets the best of me. I felt a hard thud conncet with the back of my seat and I couldn’t hold back any longer. I shot around.

“HEY, could you please NOT kick my chair?” I said, leaning over the back of my chair with an angry frown.

“UMM. It’s not intentional” Ghetto Thing replied, cocking her head to the side, and sucking her teeth loud enough for the whole theater to hear.

“It’s not intentional??” I shout-whispered back, still mindful of the other people in the theater “You’ve been doing it the whole fucking movie. You’re ruining it for me and it’s starting to piss me off.”

I shot back around, a smug look on my face. I turned to my girlfriend who seemed mildly pleased, and reclined back into my seat. As the movie began to climax I started to feel a sense of impending guilt. Did I really need to do that? Said the more wholesome voice in my head. I couldn’t help but worry if I’d gone too far, screaming at Ghetto Thing. I mean, she was by herself at a movie, on a Friday night. On top of that, she was going through an extremely transitional position in her life, and didn’t need some asshole screaming at her because she happens to have long legs. As the credits began to roll I started to turn around to apologize when ::THUD:: her big fat Tranny Foot connected with the back of my chair. She quickly rose from her seat and exited the theater. Ghetto Thing: if I ever see you again I will beat you like a man.

-NYC, If You Are

The Absurdity of Living To See Yourself Die, Part 2: Two Breaths and A Balloon

incase you missed it: Part 1

Two firemen carried my limp body down a flight of stairs and layed me on the floor. Soot and mucus began leaking out of my mouth and nose. An EMT started preforming CPR. First my head was tilted back and a mask was placed over my lips. The EMT pinched my nose shut and began exhaling air down through my wind pipes and into my lungs. My chest rose, and then fell sharply, the weight of it sitting hard on my lungs. Again, air was forced into my lungs, my chest rising, and then falling sharply, like a balloon pinched shut between your forefinger and thumb suddenly being released. Another EMT began performing chest compressions to keep the blood pumping in and out of my heart. As the EMT tried applying a third rescue breath I shook to life violently, inhaling a deep, filling breath. I shot up, sitting upright, and vomited over my tshirt.

An old man going into cardiac arrest, a boy crying on the floor, a woman shouting, her voice hoarse, and scared “MI HERMANA, MI HERMANA, ARRIBA!” These are the things I saw when I opened my eyes. I searched the room, swooping my head back and forth looking for my girlfriend, half conscious of my surroundings and the situation. We met eyes. She was also covered in soot, a look of horror across her face, along with a fragile smile. Thankfully she had been pulled from the fire immediately. Before we could exchange words we were grabbed by fire fighters and brought downstairs where we were quickly

forgotten in a sea of people. Some which had injuries, others just standing around and staring. We walked out of the building, not knowing what else to do, and were approached by a short, portly cop who asked if we needed assistance. We really didn’t know, but he insisted that we did. We were walked over to an ambulance, passing a line of camera men and news media who began flashing away, taking pictures of my girlfriend whose face was covered in soot, only interrupted by two lines of flesh that had been washed away by her tears. I became enraged, threatening to break their equipment, pick a fight. I looked like a real asshole. Some lowered their cameras, others just continued flashing, quite accustomed to the situation.

It wasn’t until we were given oxygen masks that I realized how sick I actually was. I could feel the physical weight of the soot and chemicals which sat in my throat and lungs. My blood had also absorbed a fair amount of Carbon Dioxide, and Cyanide  as well(Yeah, fucking Cyanide) and unfortunately my body was doing a very poor job of absorbing oxygen.

So there we were. Two 20-somethings, kids

really, sitting in the back of an ambulance, with our hair matted to our  heads, and emergency blankets wrapped around our bodies. I became aware of my adrenaline level slowly returning to normal, as maintaining my breath became noticeably more difficult.

I wasn’t dead, it was a miracle. It was a fucking miracle, as a matter of fact. I began to think about the extent of my injuries, and contemplate how serious of an impact it might have on my life. I clutched my girlfriends hand, softly. I had very little strength actually left in my body, as the ambulance raced downtown to the hospital.

The Absurdity of Living to See Yourself Die, Part 1: Death and Chinese Food

I thought I’d try something new today.

So I tell this story about the time I died. However many times I’ve told it, I’m always fascinated by the way the details change, characters become more essential to the story; sometimes less. Sometimes the “accident” will become all my fault, and more often than not, it becomes someone else’s.

When the doors opened the oxygen was sucked out of the air. In the moment I was reminded of the big vacuum in the sky, and as the black smoke filled the elevator it resembled it as well.That is except for the screaming and the stars. When the elevator doors opened the smoke looked like someone had bricked up the entrance to the third floor, and painted it black. The smoke moved like a wave. Like a fucking Tsunami, I shit you not, and suddenly I was holding my breath. No, actually the air was sucked out of my lungs. I was trying not to breath, as the smoke waited at my lips.

Sitting on the couch watching t.v. She was taking way to long to get ready, as usual, but I guess that’s just part of the deal. I wanted to get to my place as fast as possible

so that we could order from the chinese food joint up the block before they closed. I was getting impatient, and her apartment was getting stuffier by the minute.

“baby let’s GO.” yeah, I’m one of those guys who calls their girlfriend baby.

“HOLD THE FUCK ON.” Her and I have a sharp tongue in common.

I knew I was about to die. I pulled her into my chest, and for just a second, I wasn’t scared. And then the second passed, and everyone rushed out of the elevator and she wasn’t in my arms anymore, and I was alone. I stepped in the direction of the elevator doors. The smoke was thick and hot on my arms. I know you’re supposed to get low in a fire, but I was disoriented, and wanted to find her. The fire was to my right, I could feel it. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. I needed to fucking breath. It was hot, and I needed to breath, and I couldn’t find her, and I didn’t know which way I was going. I gasped for air, and the smoke filled me to the core. The smoke was heavy in my lungs. I could feel the weight of it, inside of my chest. There was nothing to breath. there wasn’t any oxygen. Any illusion I might’ve had that, just maybe, everything would be okay was shattered. I began having a coughing fit. My body needed oxygen and would use every last ounce of strength to drink in the smoke, and then force it out. Drink it in, force it out, drink it in, force it out. I have never coughed that hard before. My body shook violently, and I fell to the floor. I stopped breathing, and closed my eyes. It wasn’t terribly painful. It happened so fast that I wasn’t fully able to process how utterly terrifying it was either. I couldn’t help but think of how ridiculous the whole thing was. Death was a downright absurdity, almost funny.

“Holy shit. We have to get out of here. There’s a fucking fire in the building.” Christ. What was I thinking.