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Post-Modern Drunk: Existential Crisis
I've lost my edge.
Fuck.
Where the fuck did it go?
Getting off the subway, following a woman who weighs more than my entire family does, who is preceded by her husband, Jack Sprat, I find myself angry. Get out of the fucking way, I'm thinking. How in the hell did you get a fanny pack that can make it all the way around your waist? Did you just buy two of them, 'cause, hey, two fanny packs!
I'm on the verge of saying these things, and Mr. Sprat turns to his wife with a look of joy on his face. "We're about to get out of the amazing New York subway and see Midtown Manhattan!" I can see him thinking. "We're in the big city, that we've wanted to see since we were kids! The place of the movies!"
And my heart melts. That seriously hurts. Do you have any idea what it is to feel empathy for the first time in your life? To realize that, for one brief moment, you held the power to ruin someone's day and, thankfully, you didn't?
It's horrifying.
I later tortured puppies with a blowtorch to try to get my edge back, but it wasn't the same.
I only hope I regain my edge by the time "Ladytron, Pt. 2" comes out.
