on a wednesday morning

I never understood why certain people claimed that curse words make you sound uneducated, as if the alternatives were so much more sophisticated. Yesterday morning I felt like shit and I don't think this little detail would benefit my tale in anyway were I to choose to describe said morning feeling as crap or poop. I felt like shit. I think that sums things up quite nicely.

Getting on the subway at ten to nine it was already clear that I would be late to the office. It hardly mattered. All I had the energy to concentrate on was the pounding headache which under other far more entertaining circumstnces could have been justified as a hangover. In my case, I had spent Tuesday evening in bed with my roommate, the dog, and a new Veronica Mars (yet not in the kinky sense). At around 4am my roommate showed up in my room, tears streaming down her face, shaking like a damn chiuhaha (in this case I just really wanted to add the curse word, sue me). Sick, sick, sick she was and back to sleep I never really managed to get after finding her some meds and a cold compress for her aching head.

So now here I was with an aching head of my own, on my way to yet another long day behind this computer screen which I knew from experience would only make the pain far more severe. Across from me on the train, a cute boy in sunglasses sat tapping his pen to the beat of imaginary music, pausing occasionally to scribble down words in his nearly filled notebook.

I felt jealous. I felt anger. Why don't I write anymore? Why don't I create? Once I had talent, I am quite sure of it but somewhere along the way my creative soul was swiftly opressed as the corporate career girl declared a dictatorship.

Perhaps I stared at him too blatantly, desperately longing for my own notebook and the words to fill it with. When I got up at my midtown stop I felt a tap on my side. Looking over the boy tore out the page he was working on and handed it to me. Demurely smiling, I exited the train and joined the swelling crowd on our ascent from below ground.

The words read:

"Taken from a restless sleep to a discourse on routines, As the venom is spread the angst loses its charm and leaves my self and others cold, listless. Sour tastes left over from nights before, This morning she's late but I'll still wait cuz she took awhile to get her look straight.

Accursed street level but its cold underground. I cant ever settle In love with the sounds. The sound of her voice, I can see in her eyes Reflection shown like a ghost whose waiting to die. The boots on her legs look happy and snug. The skirt on her thighs her hips it does hug. I like you hair that way, you should do it more often."

If I knew how, I may have cried. Instead, I was inspired to write.