Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I ask you to meet...too much to drink.

Rules and witty conversation.

I’m lonely, right, and something seems urgent. I write this diary out of urgency, because I think I’ll lose the voice. I think if I don’t put it down I’ll stop speaking.

They’re hiring rock stars at work, people with short hair and long coats in pastels. Matching cell phones. Talent. They look like talent. They do things well, with timely phone calls.

I have drank several pitchers--pitchers--of beer tonight. And played truth and dare, and sent two doofy lovers home after the cab dropped me off. And met a celibate millionare, he gave me his card, and been to a Rangers game. The Rangers lost against Ottowa. This is all truth. I have survived to tell the ungodly trivial tale.