I never take the V train...

mainly, it doesn't run late nights, which is the ideal time for bitter contemplation of the Learn English! and Dewer's 12 ads, because the train just seems to rock more when its empty, because grammar doesn't matter anymore when its $5 Margarita night at Rapture (yeah Astoria!) and at least Mary knows that my typical sexual behavoir is not reprehensible and I leave better voicemail messages when I'm drunk. HUH. Plus its nice to have the walk over to the lovely L.E.S. from as far as Union Square, even when it's cold or rainy, but not both. So tommorow I may be taking the V train, as it will probably rain and it will certaintly be cold seeing as its 2000SIX now and that means FUCKINGDEADOFWINTER, all for the joy of having my heart torn out, placed on a fishook and magnificently swung about from a pole in the center of Houston Street for all to see. My freinds, I do this willingly, because love seems to only know the boundries of it's innappropriate/uncomfortable/unacceptable/misguided/dangerous to enter each other's houses anymore, thus we have to dismantle all the unsaid travesties of our 2.25-year relationship in cute cafe's in a fashoinable part of town where they won't kick us out for extreme displays of pain and misery becuase it might add to the cultural significance of that particular establishment because maybe one of us is or will be famous or maybe the waitstaff is just strung out. Whatever happens, I'll do my best to end the night home on the N train, which, as many of you know, is the best train ever. This is entirely an act of superstition, but one I will hold by to the point of waiting an extra 20 minutes on the platform with no seat and they're spray-washing the stairs. All to see the Chrystler Building lit up after everything else in Manhatten goes to bed for the night. It's something to hold on to.