kerouac says

when the shuttle from times square to grand central isn't running, there is an inordinate number of white people wearing expensive shoes on the 7 train. they are the kind of people who refuse to step into the center of the car, even if you're crammed matchstick-style into the doorway while they stand facing three or four feet of empty space (note: three or four feet may not seem like a lot of vacant space, but it is on the 7 train--especially if your ribcage is the only thing separating two teenage lovers in the middle of a heated spat). they are the kind of people who, when you tap them on their cashmere arm and ask them could they please step in, check the label on your jacket before laughing openly at your meager request for courtesy.

"where are you from, montana?"

you know, i don't think it would matter where i was from. i would still want to shove this copy of _the importance of being earnest_ so far down your capped-teeth smile that you shit bons mot for the rest of the week. you are lucky that i'm tired, fuck you, because i have a secret robot arm that could have reached inside your body and plucked your spinal chord like a harpsichord string.

i'm smarter than you, too, and that jacket came from a flea market in fucking paris.