Document 1

Too often, I sit in front of this laptop, too tired to complain about the empty spaces needing to be filled. I open up Microsoft Word, wait for the ‘Product Activation Failed’ prompt to go away before staring at a white box. Maybe I should have paid for Office.

I minimize it because I can’t think of jack shit to say. It’s not because there’s nothing on my mind, but because there’s too damn much on my mind.

I’ll start off with something about a recent sports event. And here’s what ends up happening:

If you want to fully understand the fractious union between pop culture and sports, look no further than Sunday night.

A major issue with how mass viewed sporting events are covered in the current media climate is that they are chopped into digestable stories (or as it is obnoxiously called by internet media “rock stars”, snackable content.) Whereas the regular season and the majority of the playoffs are intimate, if not, obsessive conversations between fans, championship matches or series become …

Become… what? Become… Become… fuck! The train of thought is lost as fast as it arrived.

And then I watch the Knicks stumble out of the gates again. Okay, maybe that’s the spark! I should write about the head coaching change because they had a viable shot at the playoffs until mid-January happened. Every win streak is followed by a losing streak. Actually, that sounds a lot more like life as of late, doesn’t it.

Then I sit here and my mind goes through so many other trivialities before I’m reminded of the very real struggles of life in this new New York.

This new New York. The one I have a hard time reconciling with day after day. How the hell did it get so… so… wealthy suburban mall-ish? I remember there used to be more people with buttered rolls and fifty-cent coffees than venti frappachino whatever they’re called. It couldn’t have been that long ago.

Write through it, Jay.

Thinking of trains, thinking of this strange new world, I snarl at no one in particular every morning while waiting for the A train that I’m only going to take three stops because I know how obscenely crowded it’ll get before it even leaves upper Manhattan. Where the hell did all of these people come from? One morning – actually, it was yesterday morning – I let two trains go by before I got on a third because the platform was teeming with a bunch of people who came to the city because ‘Empire State of Mind’ told them their dreams could come true… at the sacrifice of the natives, but sure, they’ll come true.

I switch to the D train, where…

Wait, I did it again. I lost myself in one thought until another one pulled me away. I want to tell you a story, but right now, there’s none to tell. And the Knicks can’t play for four full quarters for the 10th time in eleven games.

Speaking of stories, that’s the problem with writing. it’s easy to get sidetracked because everything around you is worth talking about if you play close enough attention. Perhaps with the stress-soaked emotions as of late, every potential story needs too much to put together. Too much to edit. Too much to double-check and triple-check. Too much.

Too much doubt. There’s a lot of it these days in a way that makes past adversity seem as if someone made mountains out of mole hills for some sadistic fun. Doubting where I belong, doubting what I’m doing, doubting if I even KNOW what I’m doing, doubting if I could finish one damn paragraph without stopping.

None of this makes sense to you, does it, dear reader? Well, it shouldn’t. It’s my stream of consciousness babbling again. Speaking of again, I heard that there’s always tomorrow. Hold up, I thought tomorrow was never promised! Not sure if anyone knows, but if I wake up in the morning, it’ll be another chance to try and fill the blank spaces.

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