gazelles of the mta.

you know, i've been sitting here trying to think of a new post to put up, one that will just get that dratted rant i put up there yesterday out of my face (while i've received no hate mail just yet, i can feel the collective horror wafting out of blogland that i actually touched that subject and delivered an emotional torrent on it, instead of something well-researched. thank god i'm not in college anymore), and all i can come up with is how i knew that today was going to be irritating from the second i walked on to the subway platform. i knew this because waiting at the foot of the stairs was a pack of girls who must all have been models--no less than three, all nudging six feet and with no discernible body fat, looking lost and poignant, picking across the concrete on their gazelle-like limbs as their tiny hipbones jutted out from their stylish clothing, and the sweating businessmen looked on rapturously from the safety of their suits.

and there is nothing, nothing that causes a girl like me to lose all her enthusiasm for a day more rapidly than meeting mannequins in the flesh, because no matter how good i look i am never going to look like them.

of course, none of them could ever dream of having my rack, but that's another story entirely.