Fuck action movies, there is no greater source of nervous tension and seat-gripping excitement than watching a Capri-panted commuter do her makeup on a Manhattan-bound Q train going over the bridge. It’s not like that irresistable car-crash-fascination phenomenon because while it’s true that you can’t stop looking even though you might have been caught staring twice already and had to immediately pretend you were just reading the map behind this chick’s head and not waiting with bated breath for the death and destruction that will inevitably occur - while there’s all that, the death and destruction haven’t occured yet, which is why it’s so fascinating. No determined Ed Norton or enthusiastic Keanu could summon such anticipation from their audiences, even poised over a relentlessly ticking timer as they try to decide whether it’s the green wire or the fucking red one. I’m not the only one gaping - everyone else on the train is just dying for this brave girl to stab herself right in the tear duct with the liquid eyeliner brush she’s holding so impossibly close to her face. Not a soul so much as blinks until the entire horrific process is completed, and all her supplies safely capped and back in her Prada purse. Safe, that is - until next time.

Anyhow, I missed you all too. I’d explain why I wasn’t here for three days but while detailing the curious and fantastical chain of events that led to my building being without phone or net access since Thursday would be terribly entertaining, I’m going to resist the temptation because I’d just end up describing various anatomical impossibilities involving Verizon customer service staff members.