All that shit

by Teresa Finney

I’m excited to get back.

This sounds odd, but I’m looking forward to sleeping those three hours/night because of homework and knowing that working that hard means that I’m earning my shit. Real excited to wait up for the GrubHub delivery guy to bring me tempura vegetables or a burger and a milkshake at 2am just because I CAN. The subway, oh god, the subway. You maneuver your body in awkward positions around straphangers and baby strollers, and the times you do get a seat, you’re sometimes confronted with a stranger’s ass, crotch, or tits in your face. But, there are times on the subway, usually during mid-day or late at night when the train car is slightly empty and you’ll get a window seat or a corner seat and Billie Holiday will come your iPod and it’ll be just you and your city. You remember where you are in a stupidly romantic way and maybe even WHO you are and why you did this one crazy thing that led to so many other countless beautiful things. I know that I will more than likely get embarrassingly drunk in Chelsea/Harlem/Times Square/West Village/ETC in front of people who will relive the horror with me the next morning via text or the next weekend when we do it all over again. I’m excited for all the stories I’ll get to tell.

I’m so excited to do all that shit I’ll eventually complain about and all the things I’ll take for granted one second, then literally in the next moment remember why it is all so important. Why I did it all in the first place.