Dear NYC,

Hey Pal. I woke up feeling a little crummy this morning and have been dragging those crumbs around with me all day. I'm overwhelmed with the realization that with each passing day, I'm more of a spectator than a participant of things that inspire me. At the same time, I am more of a participant in the things that make me feel incomplete. I can't be specific or explain what that even means. I just know I hate days like this.

I have this fantasy wherein each day I paint the bottoms of my shoes a different color, so that over time my footsteps route a map on your surface. My expectation and my fear are a conundrum; that the colors would layer themselves to black, each footfall the same as the day before.

Keeping it real,
The Woobs

Dear NYC,

Absolute Truth: I have never pressed an elevator button that has already been pressed.

Motherfuckers, do you think the elevator will arrive sooner because you hit the button two times in rapid succession? I just hit the button, and you saw me do it. Why would you press it again? And you couldn't even look at me! You may as well leave a horse-head in my bed or pants me in front of my sixth grade gym class. Coward.


The Woobs

Dear NYC,

How are you? I've been writing so much about me lately, I haven't asked about you. I'm sorry about that. So.....

Anyway, something happened yesterday that has me wondering about my eternal salvation. I got an email from my mother that was titled: "Catholic online: Mary, Mother of God". And I shit you not NYC, the email WOULD NOT OPEN. I clicked on it, and nothing happened. I got a pop-up box telling me there was an error. Click. Error. Click. Error. So, like a good Catholic, I began justifying and came up with the following probable explanations: Firstly, my place of employment uses Lotus Notes, which if you've never used it is the oldest and slowest way to make e-communication happen. Legit dust shoots out of the computer when I hit send. Secondly, my mother types 'Yahoo' into the Google search bar to get to her email. No further explanation necessary. Thirdly....well, fourthly and fifthly....and that one, sixthly. Seventhly totally didn't count. That alone counts as a confession, right?

In conclusion, I blame Lotus Notes.

Muah,
The Woobs

Dear NYC,

Today is a good day for two reasons:

1) My hair has extra bounce and curl, rather than the usual atmosphere of frizz that swarms my dome this time of year.

2) My underwear are loose, and my stride isn't forcing them to maneuver themselves into origami swans. Buttocks, pants and unders are in unison! Rejoice!

I love these types of unexpected pleasantries.

Love always,
The Woobs

Dear NYC,

CC: American Psycho looking guy who sat across from me on the LIRR.

Just because YOUR eyes are closed when you scratch your balls, doesn't mean that MINE don't see you doing it.

I also want to wish you the best with that incessant foot-tapping. Clearly, you were put on this earth so someone (I don't know who) can punch you in the face.

The Woobs

Dear NYC,

As I approached a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk, I reached into my bag and pulled out a leftover peach to place in his soiled hand. As he smiled and blessed me, I hesitated before telling him that the fruit was unwashed. Then I marched myself directly into a cement wall. Twice.

Love,
The Woobs

Dear NYC,

I was sitting on a park bench eating a ham sandwich, when I noticed that the woman sitting across from me was nearing the end of a novel; mouth agape, eyeballs frantic. She only had a small pinch of pages left, so I waited for her to finish because I wanted to see the expression on her face when she turned the back-cover closed. While I waited and chewed, I thought about the emotions I conjure when reaching the end of a novel, and concluded that it's usually a melancholy experience. I re-focused on my lunchtime friend, who was now tracing the words line by line with her finger. Seeing her do this made me feel anxious with anticipation. I suddenly felt unprepared to see the effects of a story's end happen across her face. I didn't want to be the first representation of 'real' when her glance left her lap. I quickly gathered my belongings and hurried along leaving her in rapture. When I got several steps away I turned to look back and saw as she sneezed into the book's open pages. I sighed relief and continued back to work, saved.

The Woobs