Seems to have caught my leg instead

I'm sick of public transportation.

Not as a concept--mass transit is undoubtedly a very useful and necessary tool in a world where you have to choose between paying for a gallon of gas or a 32-inch 1080 dpi plasma flatscreen. 

I mean I'm personally sick of waiting for assorted subways, trains and buses.

I'm currently writing this from a train somewhere in the northeast. I'm not sure that I'm allowed to be more specific than that because I'm on a top secret assignment, and all you internet savvy super sleuths could probably use context clues to figure out what my clumsy allusions mean.

However, I'm pretty certain that nobody is going to fire me for letting you know that I'm working on a cover story.

For those of you not in my fan club (Note: No such fan club exists in any plane of actual existence), you might recognize that this will be the first time that my byline will be plopped on a cover story. 

It's kind of an exciting process. But it's a ton of pressure, too. 

And I also (and this is not one of my exaggerations, Rachel) forgot to eat for two days. Yesterday, as I was running between my 16th and 17th subway rides, I suddenly realized that I was weaker than usual (and believe you me, I'm just about the sickliest kid ever). 

I assumed I'd likely just gone too long between cigarettes (even though subway platforms are often outside in wide open spaces, they usually don't let you smoke--it's like some cruel psychological torture device for smokers who associate blue skies with Camel Lights).

But when I ran by a train station food court and actually found myself salivating at a salad bar (of all things), I put together the pieces and quickly went next door to the Taco Bell.

Then I felt worse.

But I was more confident that I'd bought myself at least 17 more hours of life.

Okay, sorry that I gotta cut this blog a little shorter than usual, but my stop is coming up and I have to jog a few blocks to the airport. 

For some reason I've been listening to the same mewithoutYou song on repeat for three hours. ("In A Sweater Poorly Knit"--providing me with a semblance of sanity and a title for this blog.)

Talk to you soon, kid.

If you're hungry, eat something. Learn from my mistakes.