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Too late/early

Just walked in the door.

Shit it is late. Or early. Or whatever.

It’s always a little disconcerting when you get on the subway and it is still dark and when you come out the sun is there to blind you. When I say dark, I mean that seriously-early-in-the-morning-surreal-cold-numb dark that the city gets after you’ve been out drinking and your feet and legs are killing you because the buzz has worn off and your shoes are awesome, though you are not entirely sure where they are at the moment.  And then the light. Cold and white and blinding and mean. Not that sweet trickling through the window wake you up sort of light. This is the kind where your head fills with it when you see it and nothing else exists.

Anyway. I stopped by the bodega of Mr. Balasubramaniam on the corner. No. I have no clue how to pronounce it. It says it on his name tag. Biggest name tag I ever saw, to be honest. I call him Mr. Balusu. He doesn’t seem to mind.  He says it means young and auspicious and he puffs out his boney chest. It’s kinda cute and he calls me “Sundara laṛakī” (pretty girl) so I like going there. So I bought a coffee and a bag of plantain chips and came home. Luckily Dogg isn’t here to complain about the crunching of the chips. Besides, I really need some sleep and Dogg would want to talk. He’ll want to anyway when he gets back. He ALWAYS wants to talk about the newest guy he fucked when he comes home.

Shit…this coffee was a bad idea. I’m gonna be all jazzed in about ten minutes. Wait a minute. I think I have some GBH somewhere around here. That ought to knock me out. I need a few hours before Dogg gets home.

G’night you crazy cats. Write soon.

Hugs and kisses and the sweetest of dreams.

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