I’d Rather Be Blind And Sweaty [Friday Thoughts With TeeCoZee]

fridaythoughts2Good morning for bad mourning. It’s Friday, December 13, Two Thousand and Thirteen. The weather in Brooklyn is 31˚ & partly cloudy and somewhere, in Compton, Smokey is hiding under Craig’s window, waiting for him to come in so he can pop up and say “Break Yoself Fool!”. I also have a few things on my mind.

– If you thought it was unlucky to be alive in 2013, you’re probably superstitious enough to believe that you’re super-fucked by the fact that Friday The 13th occurs twice this year. I don’t exactly believe in luck. In my experience, I never have good luck nor do I have bad. My luck has been plateaued for as long as I can remember. It’s kind of nice that way. I never have to be disappointed or manically excited. It’s great. I’d recommend it. However, I’m a firm believer that having two Friday The 13th’s in one year makes you more susceptible to being murdered by Jason Voorheis. Because thats the only day of the year that he kills, right? Maybe I’m wrong.

– I go to Foodtown every Sunday to get football watching supplies. These supplies include [and are limited to] a 2-liter of soda, chips/pork rinds, popcorn and potentially Hot Pockets®. It’s almost a ritual. I don’t think I’ve ever bought anything that I could be remotely proud of at Foodtown. Every once in a while, I’ll grab a bag of a seasonal fruit, just to look a little less suspicious. It’s not like I eat like this every day, it’s just my Sunday habit. But that’s a little hard to explain to the multitudes of cute girls that flock to the store every Sunday Morning. There’s been a few instances where a girl is in front of me in line, she checks me out, glances at what I’m buying, chuckles and shifts attention. Every time, I’m tempted to explain to myself that I only eat like that one day a week or maybe 2 or 3, but it’s only because I work second shift and have nobody to cook for and no desire to mix kale and mustard greens and radishes and what the hell are you even going to do with all those vegetables anyway except make a salad or a dip or a juice or a juice dip or probably nothing at all because you just bought nothing but vegetables for the sole purpose of making others feel bad about dietary choices, which is subtle but effective with no real personal resolution because I’ve spent the last forever in bachelorhood, unable to give two shits about vegetables or locality of food justice or mascara so just swipe your stupid EBT card and get the fuck out of my universe, you self-righteous, heinous—oh snap, she smiled at me!

– Top 5 Questions That I Hate Being Asked:

5) What kind of music do you listen to?
4) What do you do?
3) What train do you need to take?
2) Where are you from?
1) Can you bring some wine?

– Top 5 Annoying Responses To My Responses

5) Well that’s…vague…
4) Oh, that sounds like….fun?
3) But the A is express, don’t you need the C?
1) What do you mean by “I don’t know anything about wine”?

– Gentrification works in mysterious ways. You may not notice it happening at all, as it could be a slow-burn. But I guarantee, one day, you’ll find yourself in a train car with a bunch of hipsters. The train barrels through Williamsburg and East Williamsburg, without anyone getting on or off. You start to panic, wondering to yourself that maybe there’s a sweet party in East New York or Jamaica that you’re about to miss, or maybe the point is that you SHOULD miss this party. Your mind is bombarded with the possibilities as to why they’re still on the train. Maybe they’re all heading to the airport. Or grabbing the LIRR. Or no. No no no. That’s when you lose the pigment in your skin. The train screeches into your stop. The stop you get off at. The stop everyone get’s off at. For you see, with Craigslist Neighborhoods™ comes Craigslist Subway Stops™. After all, it’s “only 9 stops away from Manhattan”. The perfect distance. LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION!

– Robinson Cano is still having a bad week.

– It’s really hard to find a good Pizza Roll™ in this town.

– I’m going to the Turkish Bathhouse tomorrow. It’s the perfect thing to do in the first cold month of the year. Outside, there could be an Arctic hurricane going on, but inside, you’re sweating like Rex Ryan’s wife at Foot Locker. But going to these places is a little awkward for me. The intense heat messes with my glasses, so I basically have to do without. Which means that I can’t see anything. Which means that if I lose my friends, I’ll be walking blindly through a cloudy labyrinth, going from dark room to dark room of sweaty bodies, trying to find the ones that I can recognize. Also, when I’m there, I’m essentially looking at nothing. But the other people in the room don’t know that I’m blind. So this could lead to an uncomfortable situation where the person thinks I’m staring at their body, admiring it, wondering what it feels like or some other gross shit. When in reality, I’m actually just staring off into space, because space is all that I can see. Come to think of it, I don’t even know why I go to the Bathhouse.

Have a sweaty weekend!