laugh, it's all i had

I couldn't be sure when Pilgrim started to poke at me. Claw, whimper, moan. I haggled with him for a few hours, finally I pulled myself out of bed. I let him into the yard, attempting to supervise. He relieved himself. I mumbled something about walking him right before bed, looked at the clock: 5:13am. Little asshole. I jumped back in bad, pulled the quilt over my head.

Alarm: 7am. I put on some moccasins, down jacket. Chased him around and eventually got his Puppia on. I fumbled out the door: dropping my keys on the iced stairs, slid, crunched.

8:08am, pick up the pace, the time makes me think of 808's and Heartbreak. The kids with their parents enroute ecole, remind me that I'm late. I take small quick steps over the ice. I slide my Metrocard. Again. Encore. Again. Again. I whip around, do metro workers come with a side of anger or do commuters like me develop this trait in them over the years?

"There's nothing wrong with your card."

"Clearly, it's your turnstile, can I walk through?"

"Slide it again."

"It's going to say that it was used too frequently."

She waved me off.

I stepped on the R, then out at Atlantic. Good Christ, there are a lot of people on the platform. Either it's late, or I'm really that late. Arrive D train. It's packed. Two people step off. I shimmy in. The group behind me push, shove- all of them in. I can't reach a pole, I wedge my book under my shoulder. Someone's Chai tea latte is sticking to my boots below. Three girls turn to me. One raises a brow. We chuckle, another links arms with me, then one more. We brace ourselves as the train heaves. A man's suitcase is now in between my legs, my elbow is jammed into a tiny Asian woman's graying hair.

Grand St.

Release.

I hop into a seat not a moment after it opens. Open my book.

8:58, I enter the office. Get my building ID, have an exceptionally awkward 'conversation' with a man as he speaks on his teenage daughter leaving her lingerie around the house, wondering if he's not supposed to look at it, on the bathroom floor. A kid in the office kitchen drops his coffee cup three times, the lowfat organic milk and sugar are two hours late and still not delivered.

My computer just crashed, three men are looking at it. Could you just reformat?

The milk finally comes, I knock my head loading the dairy into the fridge. A bump forms, head still hurts. I attempt to medicate myself with J.Crew, then leave it in the office.

Home. Walk Pilgrim. Answer a few emails. Walk Pilgrim again. A boy asks, "He friendly?"

"Sure, but he's doing his thing," I gestured to the wide eyed and squatting Pug. The kid gave him a pat anyways. His friends shove banter to him.

I step out to enjoy a dinner at the Coffiner's, realize that all the shares I'm looking at either involve a language barrier or off-kilter raging psycho...peace of mind? S'il vous plait...

Thank you, Sasha: you make amazing pizza from scratch. The ideal puncuation to my day.