Man, I felt terrible yesterday. Jason and I wandered around the West Village for half an hour looking for a place to get food, and we finally settled on Sammy's Asian Gourmet at 6th and Bleecker -- apparently a spin-off of the Noodlehaus, up on 11th St. Anyway, it wasn't very good, and like 15 minutes after I started eating my body started screaming at me that I was going to have to throw up. I managed to keep it in check, but I had to go downstairs and walk around the block a few times before I was feeling well enough to sit down at my desk. And then the feces explosion.
That morning, the Q had been super-slow; I could've gotten to work faster by walking. I was standing next to this old guy on the subway, and whenever the conductor apologized for the delay, the guy would murmur quietly, "thas' okay," or, "hey, that's cool," or, "don't worry about it."
I'm reading Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson. I don't get it, though! Earth people: "I was born on Jupiter!"
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