Thanks Bukowski! Thanks Salinger!

As the 6 train pulled up, her eyes locked on an uglier pair already waiting inside. She took the closest open seat, which was coincidentally right across from the man.

She thought he was ugly; with his twisted, gross, orange beard, ill-fitting pants and balding scalp. Yet she sat and watched him listen to his music, and jiggle and flail his dirty hands about to whatever beat he seemed to hear. Seven in the morning, she was tired, still a bit drunk and couldn't help her wandering imagination. It pissed her off.

'I mean' she thought, ' Only boring people get bored, right?' This pissed her off too. She wasn't boring. Was she? At least if she was in California there would be plenty of reasons to be bored and hate her life. Plenty more bars without NYU idiots, anyway. Her heart hurt as well, but for reasons that it shouldn't. She looked up from her lackadaisical thoughts to see the man staring at her forehead and playing with something in his pocket.

"Come on man, I mean, if you're gonna do that, at least put a jacket over it."

He still stared at the dead center of her skull. She crossed her legs and pulled up her shorts an inch.

"Alright, well, can you at least stare somewhere that makes sense to do it to?"

Still, no reply. Just fidgeting.

Brushing it off, she slumped back and let her brain boil a while longer, until she realized the train was stalled at the stop before hers.

The man watched as she gathered her bag off the floor and put it on her shoulder, ready to exit at the sound of the automated voice. It was cold in his hand, for the first time in a while. That worried him. As I suppose it should all men like him.

The train slowed down to Spring Street, as she grasped the metal bar to hoist herself up, the man across from her stood up, and she figured she'd be polite to the creep and let him off first. She didn't really want him staring at her ass anyway.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket, put it against her forehead and pulled.

Her brains blossomed onto the window pane of the train car just as " This is; Spring Street. The next stop is...." monotonously rang throughout the car; signaling the man to leave. He put the .45 back into his pocket, and relished in the fact that it was warm once again.

86'ed

Shuffling again in my ratty sneakers and sweaty day old clothes to the vacant bus stop, at least three people had noted my watch and asked me for the time.

Waiting in the empty glass cube for the bus, I got asked twice more.

The fake leather band made my wrist anxiously sticky and the back metal plate was getting nervously hot.

Then, the sixth person asked me for the time.

Peoples obsession with the figment of time, and how they feel the need to own it and control it so bad that they wear it makes me nauseous. What's the big deal what time it is? You're going to be doing the same shit you did yesterday and will be doing the same shit tomorrow. Get real.

Slowly unbuckling it, their eyes widened like starving dogs in anticipation of me giving the device to them.

Getting up on top of the bench, as if the spectators and I were playing "king of the hill", I lunged my fist downwards with all the force I had, in hopes of destroying the wretched thing.

I proceeded to jump on the watch.

And stomp on it

And stomp on it,

And stomp on it.

As if in bitter defiance, I could still hear its "tick... tick..." death rattle as it lay there; shards becoming pavement and pavement becoming shards. I threw it at a parked cab, only to watch it resiliently bounce off.

With one last stomp, miniscule springs and sprockets shot in to the air with the gusto of the fourth of july. I got down on my hands and knees and carefully put my ear up to the mess to make sure it was finished. Before I got to the pavement however, I noticed that there were only two numbers left-

8 and 6.

86

My entire life I've found comfort in the shit. Comfort in the shit. So comfortable in the shit, I've screwed my way out of everything that has ever been good for me because I don't understand any of it.

I've found comfort in the shit, and now I'm 86'ed from it.