The District of Meatpacking and Lonely Street

I'm walking to the subway, slightly intoxicated from a martini and a shot of patron. I feel slightly guilty because I left my friend Lauren's birthday party early - and she was more present at my birthday than I was. But I did make the long journey to the "meatpacking district."

It's uncanny how the name still bears truth to its surroundings. A district that used to pack slaughtered meat now promotes one packing their "meat" into the slaughtered prey. Male or female is not so important. It's still a meat market of sorts - one that used to house ground beef to grade A sirloin now selects its 'subjects' based upon lack of fat. Thus, the filet, the sauciest of beef brands would seemingly dissipate as a result, but the skinny prefer the fat and the fat are not welcome - unless provided in marbled eight inch circumferences at a medium rare temperature, to be pick at for status' sake.

I am finding that my fuscia tights get looks, they receive stares; those coupled with my untamed mane of curls. The anti-christ of the faux haute. And I chuckle at the glares and stares because the seriousness attributed to the disgust of my stockings is so trivial, and in reality it is legitimately comical. Poor, poor filets.

I have found that late evening semi-drunk strolls through the city lend one to truly identify with how lonely they are. Trapped between concrete and glass walls that stretch over one hundred feet high - it's easy to feel small. And in those late hours when the psyche is not interrupted by the bustle of foot-traffic, the cranial circuits find time to silence and buzz and connect, and in those moments I think; I really think. Not about the fuscia glares (that is peripheral) but about shana and morgan and my sister and the stature of the architecture around me. I take the time to "peruse" and look through that list of names that I typically find so empty. I have time to think, which affords me reason to act, and I make that call that I should have made months ago.