2nd: The First Ever Serialized Adventures of You 1.1

So before I start off today burdening you with the awfulness of my writing, remember how the other day after I finished my list of top query no-nos I mused about maybe doing a list of things you should do some day? Well, with the true entrepeneurial spirit, one Crazy Writer Girl convinced me to take a stab in a guest blog for her. So check it out. For the rest of this week every day I'll post about a page of a short story I was working on a few months ago and had to abandon due to workload. Feel free to tear it apart. Indeed, in the spirit of vicious editing, and since it is mid-month, the 3rd and 7th comments on this post have an opportunity for a Let's Make a Deal editing. (Note: A single user posting multiple times in a row does not count as multiple posts towards this goal. The same poster cannot win twice per...deal?)Why 3 and 7? I just like those numbers. And stick around because next week I have a backlog of stuff I'ma review for you including (finally!) Jeremy C. Shipp's Fungus of the Heart. Finally- happy MLK day everyone. Enjoy the day off. Try not to spend the whole thing brooding, but be sure to brood a little over our history, race relations, martydom, heroics, morality, social obligations and so on.
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It’s a surprisingly hot day in early autumn. The air outside is stagnant and humid and you can’t help but think that New York City at this time of year should be cooler. Back home, you think, it rarely even snowed and from the horror stories you’d heard, you thought you’d be buried in it already. But it isn’t like that at all outside. Millions of people, trash piling up on the streets, the harbor and the Hudson and the heat come together in the least pleasant way possible. The phrase “urban jungle” comes to your mind and you almost laugh. But you don’t. You’re on the subway. Nothing is funny on the subway.
If it’s hot outside it’s always twice as bad in the station. To make up for it, the MTA blasts its air conditioners all the time. The people around you are always hacking on some phlegm because of it. You look around at all these miserable people hoping to find some bit of wonder or joy left in this city. Your eyes light on a few worthwhile images. An agreeable young woman smiles brightly at you. Her face is plain, but her legs go all the way up.
“Hi, new to the city?” she asks. She must have noticed you looking around.
“Not that new.” You try to sound cool.
“You looked like you were trying to get your bearings. Anything I can help you with?” She asks.
Yes, your brain says. I’m still so overwhelmed. I could really use a friend in this big terrifying city. If you show me around, whatever we do will be my treat. What’s your cell number?
“Nah, I just don’t want to stare.” Your mouth hates you.
“Stare?” You see that the young woman is confused. “Stare at what?”
“Whatever is interesting. For example, that sour Mandy Patinkin looking accountant over there.” Don’t say it you tell your brain. Don’t you dare say it. “Or your breasts, for instance. Perfect heft, remarkable curvature. If I try not to stare, I’ll end up staring more. So I take lots of quick looks.” Damnit, you think. God fucking damnit. Couldn’t the world let you have just one? Did every opportunity have to just be bait? Why must the cosmic forces always pull the damned football away at the last second? Your ability to distinguish between what you do and what is done to you has decreased dramatically since your ill-fated move to the city which never sleeps.
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