"How do you feel?" I wake to find the ugly face of strangers hovering over me. "How do you feel, miss?" It takes me a total of forty two seconds to assess the situation. I make up that I have passed out. Right here. Houston street during lunch hour. I ignore the faction. I finally pull my heavy body up, I dust the dirt and pieces of Manhattan from my dress. I pull a piece of sticky, stringy cerulean colored gum off my ass, grab my purse and yell "fuck you!" to my urban knight and shining armor coalition. They stand back in horror and disbelief of my ungratefulness. I begin to walk away. I hear their shouts. I ignore them. Why should I give them the satisfaction and a verbal medal of valor. Dinner table colloquy. No way. Undeserving. I keep walking in my prodromal state, picking up pace. The click clack of my stilettos sound like some erratic jazz song. Too fast and too abstract for anyone to pay attention. "How do you feel?" those four words ruminating in my head. Over and over. A bedlam of voices. Some high pitched, some low. Some soothing, some unnerving. All asking the same thing "how do you feel?" I feel faceless, nameless and alone. Like a stray kitten in the rain looking for a home. A home like the one Norman Rockwell created with brushstrokes. I begin to cry. My teardrops black like oil from my mascara. I start to think about my childhood as I gaze at the children playing on the monkey bars in Sara D. Roosevelt playground. I look at the mother's coddling their children. Putting band aids on scrapes, kissing the bloody knees of their own little messiah. Worshiping the very words that fall from their baby bird lips. Bragging to the other mom's about admission into Horace Mann. I overhear one mother showboating about the way her son plays violin she ascertains that it is the sound of heaven and how it moves her to make her want to be better. Maybe I should take the kids number. I could use a little motivation on how to be better. I feel an impending sense of guilt for being jealous of children. Kids. Human beings that probably just learned how to wipe their own asses. I can't help myself. Perhaps if I would have had parents who threw me a party every time I swiped a crayon over a piece of construction paper I wouldn't be walking around SoHo at 1:30pm looking like something that crawled out of Dina Lohan's pussy after nine months. I continue on, click clack scooby da be bop bop blah blah blah. My feet and my psyche ache. I feel supine from passing out.There is a group of Spanish teenage boys on the corner of Broome, they make a comment about my ass. All I hear is ass, haha, mami, sexy. It then dawns on me that I have been walking around with my posterior as an advertisement for Wrigley's. Fucking dried up piece of gum on my Alaia dress. Perfect. I hail a cab at W. Broadway and pretend I hopped into a submarine. I pretend that the passerby's are schools of fish swimming about. Unaware of the dangers that lie ahead. Lovers like sharks and friends like fisherman looking to sink their hooks into your very existence. I take some time to quiet the riot in my brain and try hard to remember why I experienced that episode of syncope. I vaguely remember seeing some new head shrinker this morning. He asked me why I was at his office for a visit. I explained to him that I was lonely and he was much cheaper than renting a whore for the hour. He laughed and then proceeded to ask me "How do you feel?" and that is honestly the last thing I remember before waking up on the unpure face of Manhattan.