Cat hair in your chow mein.

I like decrepit things.

I like the fact that everyone who works in an office eats in sanitized granola cafes, where the food is 70% lettuce and bread. Ok, fine… I’m exaggerating, sometimes it is spinach too.

There is this place though, this beautiful decrepit cafeteria that is always empty. I’m sure there are rumors about cockroaches, or about the immigrant owners using cat flesh instead of beef, and that’s why only truck drivers eat there. Still, I prefer it to any other place. It feels much more comforting than the hyper sanitized granola cafe… somehow it feels closer to reality. The food is greasy, and over-cooked. Yes, the artery-clogging type. But the funny thing is that, just like me, everyone of those granola loving yuppies someday is still gonna die… regardless of their clean cafes, and most likely sooner than me. And if not sooner, then their death will be torturous. Probably something like being on life support for a year, until their grown kids decide to unplug their yellowing feeding tubes. One hit of a button, and goodbye Grandpa.

The cabin is always losing pressure.

You know what else I love? The pockets of ghetto in every glorified area. Reminders of the reality that exists outside of rich people’s gyms and fountains. Every time I walk by this crazy guy’s house in the financial district (surely he bought it during the time property was worth 10 cents), I cannot help but to take a peek at all the junk that’s inside. He’s just sitting on the ground with a bucket full of shit in front of him. Sorry, “art in progress.” Still, just the anomaly of this guy existing in a sanitized landscape brings comfort to my disrupted being. I rubberneck his property. Like dying… vicariously.

Maybe it is because his shack reminds me of my Grandparents’ crazy ghetto home. My Grams would kill me if she knew I let out this secret… but she’s already dead.

I like decrepit things.

And I don’t mind hair in my chow mein.