Dear Alex Balk:
Will you be my Valentine?
He writes about going on vacation and the feeling of insanity that returned once he arrived in, yes, New York Shitty.
It’s New York.
Within hours of my return to the city I felt my brow begin to furrow, my fists begin to tighten, my lip begin to curl up in disgust. Where, just days earlier, I would have waited patiently in line behind someone attempting to negotiate the intricacies of an automatic teller machine, now I’m already cursing the epidemic of idiocy that seems to have our whole obese stupid country in its jackassifying grip. WHAT THE FUCK, YOU MORON? LEARN TO USE AN ATM! A FIVE-YEAR-OLD COULD DO IT! I REALIZE THAT YOUR FINGERS ARE TOO FUCKING FAT TO PUSH THE RIGHT BUTTONS, BUT BECAUSE YOU CAN’T STAY AWAY FROM THE GODDAMN CORN DOGS I SHOULD SOMEHOW BE FORCED TO WAIT ANOTHER TWO MINUTES BEFORE I CAN GET MY CASH? I HOPE YOU HAVE A MASSIVE CORONARY RIGHT HERE AND NOW. I WILL HAPPILY STAND ON YOUR PRE-BLOATED CORPSE WHILE I MAKE MY WITHDRAWL.
And so on. There’s just something about the city that brings it all out in me; some battery buried below the ground that recharges my dickosity.