I'm at the airport. And I am alive. I don't know if it was worth living through what just happened.
Taxi from Bayonne New Jersey (The Paris of New Jersey, lol.) to JFK airport, Queens. Across New York. During rush hour.
It took a while, obviously. But that wasn't the issue. My driver was an old middle eastern man. And he... his breakfast was not digesting well, shall we say.
Yeah, the old guy had the hot death farts. I don't know what he ate but it went down fighting.
And it was pouring rain so I couldn't open the window much and got immediately soaked for doing so.
And he kept doing it! Like every 6-7 minutes, like a fucking metronome. I swear, the temperature shot up 10 degrees in the car every time he ripped ass too. I'd feel the desert heat of araby, and then... I don't want to live on this planet anymore. God is not here.
For two hours. Two. Hours. TWO HOURS!
I got... marinated. God help me. It's in my clothes, probably.
Anyhow, I am at the airport and have a glass of whisky. Washing the taste out of my mouth. Out of my soul.
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