Every time I leave my house, I do not presume that I will ever return there.
That isn’t an automatic thing that just follows logically for me. The dense matrix of lethality presented by virtually any region outside of the home should give a brave man pause, but I see people out all the time getting pot stickers or running with their dogs. Fuck leaving the house, the moment you board an airplane your termination index goes through the roof. Eating food from street vendors - while not directly comparable to the presumptive festival of hubris that is human flight - certainly ranks above running with the bulls in Spain or wearing a spider as decoration. What made me obtain that questionable protein from a shifty stranger is anyone’s guess. There are none more aware of the myriad dangers which accompany normal activity.
In the restroom at the bus station, I could feel diseases leaping from the stall to my penis. I live in Seattle, I’ve smelled enough heavy, strange urine to keep me pretty good on that score maybe forever. But there’s something unique about New York pee, perhaps left there by oxen, herds of oxen grazing on garbage, drinking sewage and producing wholly new types of waste. We went into this public bathroom expecting it to be horrific, we did not expect laboratory conditions, and even then we were amazed at its filth.
We had gone to New York out of desperation, because Secaucus itself is like the surface of the moon, devoid of life. It was seriously like some Left Behind, Book Of Revelations type shit, and we mainly wanted to verify that there were other people. Then, we went to New York, and there were too Goddamn many. For the recluse, it’s really a complicated business making sure there are enough people around to revile without being overwhelmed by the supply.
We’ve tapped Emma to help us navigate New York tomorrow. I’m done finding food on the street and eating it against all reason, I’m ready to approximate a human being with my behavior and appetites.
I can look down at the clock on Gabe’s laptop and see that it says 9:23, but it feels like I’ve been up for days. I’ll hit you back on Monday, if I don’t see you today at the con. Pork and my good friend Doc are holding down the fort at the Emerald City Comic Con, if you’re kicking it in Sea-town and you need a garment of some kind, please stop by and keep them company.
he is my saviour