Providence and that Subway taste in your mouth.

I’m guessing it’s time to call myself out on my bullshit and say that it’s highly unlikely that I’ll be able to talk about myself as much as I wanted to. Somewhere, my friends are rejoicing.

Because of the fact that I’ve been unable to keep up with the blog on such a regular basis, all of the events of the past Month worth talking about have become muddled and dry and blotched together like the mashed potato flakes my dad would season with black pepper to make them zing.

Well you could say what a lot of people say, ‘YOLO’ or ‘Memories last forever’- that’s bullshit, alright, that’s some backhanded attempt at somebody calling you out because they’re annoyed you keep on taking pictures or writing blog posts while you’re laying in your roll-a-way cot that’s set in the middle of the living room of one of the same suites some member of the Patriots football team slept in. Memories change every day the impetus of whatever sparked them passes you by. That’s what makes the human mind so damn perfect- enough time goes by and all of a sudden something that was great seems even better and something that was awful seems like it really wasn’t that big of a deal.

At some point this weekend, maybe tomorrow, I’ll talk about the remainder of my time in Philly and in Washington, D.C.- before my mind draws itself in and I’m suddenly remembering Kathy Griffin joining us by the firewall of some Anthony Bourdain superhero bistro. 

I’m in Rhode Island en route to Nantucket Island and I didn’t pack anything Nantucket Red. It’s not really red it’s more or like what brick would look like if a bit of milk film and cataracts was mixed into the color hue.

For the night, I’m with my good friend Bethany and her father. We left from Manhattan around six P.M. and drove up through the Bronx and through Connecticut all the way to Providence. 

I didn’t see much of it- I was wearing Ray Bans in the car while it was night out. But the Credit Union outside my hotel looks like the Capitol Building in Washington D.C., and my Hotel has an exterior that reminds me of the National Archives.

I really got write that second post about D.C.

The most I got out of Connecticut was stopping at the local Rest Stop where I chose Subway over a McDonald’s Rolo McFlurry, I dunno what the hell was the matter with me.

Instead, I settled for some bullshit excuse of ham, no cheese, and a fresh Festivus of vegetables blanketed with cool and tangy Sweet Onion Sauce. I went for the toasted foot and I’m still hungry. Every time I eat Subway for some reason or another I always tell myself that it’ll be worth it. I suppose my expectations are based upon my experiences as a child when I A) thought Subway would’ve boasted a PB&J and how dare they didn’t, and B) the thought of eating a foot long (a forth of me!) when I was already a little chubby chuckling cherub was absurd.

At the end of the day, the bread is always airy enough that it looks filling. The vegetables lose all of their nutritional value during all of the osmosis in the trucks, where they’re all stuffed in plastic bags and swished around giant vats of God-Knows-What- the lettuce you’re eating might as well by phytoplankton.

At the end of the day, Bethany had gotten an M&M McFlurry and I’m stuck with the taste of a foot-long ham sans cheese debacle chiseling its way through my gums and into my heart where I’m feeling both ventricles slowly filling up with bready, sugary dough; lumps of it. Every time I swallow or take a swig of water I can feel it all in there, still, a parasitic monstrosity with its nutrition facts printed out on recyclable napkins.

Breathe, Thomas- and open up your throat. 

Tomorrow I’ll be in Nantucket and I can pretend to be alone at the eastern end of the Western Providence. 

For now though, I’m off to bed. My feet are still cold and my eyes are drawing in heavy on themselves. The sheets are crisp, but they’re not soft enough to remind me of what it feels like to lay like a sloth in Brooklyn.

But still. Sleeping in a foreign place has always excited me. Somehow I always think that the Air Conditioning Unit is for whatever reason a terrifying entity not to be taken lightly, or that regardless if I’m the only one in the room, I need to handle everything like it was on the verge of breaking and shattering into a million tiny fractions that would crumble just beneath that canopy of carpet that feels like (I just took a moment to feel it) every other carpet in every other hotel I’ve known.

So for now, I’m off to bed. Waking up at 5:30 AM tomorrow for a ferry ride to Nantucket, followed by Grilled Lobster Tail and hopefully a big ol’ bowl of White Wine Sangria with green apple chunks and a lotta extra ice. 



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