Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Lost in Commuterville




One thing I can tell you for sure is that it is pretty rare to hear people having sex through the walls of hotel rooms.

For the most part, you cannot hear anything. Sometimes in the morning you hear the news blabbing away on your neighbor's television set, and it reminds you of the smell of burnt coffee and crisp white collars. It gives you a groaning chill, like a school night hangover.

Mostly what you hear is the sound of the fake air being pumped into the room and the tap tap tapping of your emails going out to the world. You pause at the sound of a foreign alarm clock and it makes you wonder why this beep is more palatable than your own.

All of your calls and texts to home go through this filter that fucks them up, so nobody can ever seem to say the right thing. This is because you are lost in Commuterville and no one is able to understand what that means.

The towels are scratchy and the white fluff ruins your black t-shirt. Your forehead is cold and sweaty as you wait for the valet to find your car.

You drink lots of water out of glass glasses with industrial-strength parallelogram ice cubes.

Your shoulders ache. Your stomach is sore. You are always just a little bit hung over from the night before. You smile a lot even though you are not happy. You watch hotel movies that you normally would not select.

You scoff at steak and red wine while feeling homesick for homemade cereal and sandwiches.

Everything is just a little bit backwards in Commuterville.

It's where you make friends out of strangers.
It's where you use products in miniature packages.
It's where you know the make and model of different aircrafts.
It's where you get upgraded to First Class just to sit down sooner.


It's where you lose who you are.

It's where you soar above the clouds quietly peering at private sunsets.

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