Blackouts and Breakdowns by Mark Brennan Rosenberg Page B

What the fuck is that about?”
    As I listened I sat with my head on my desk. How was I supposed to make it work in D.C.? People down here were from another breed, I really did not know if I was ever going to fit in. In New York, crazy people are crazy; shady people are shady and assholes are assholes. In D.C., it seemed as though everyone was fake but made you think they were your friend before they talked shit about you behind your back then give you their business card and told you to call them. I wasn’t sure how long I was going to make it.
    “And as far as the A.O.F. goes,” Andre continued, “that’s just typical D.C. homo bullshit. I wouldn’t let it bother you. You’re better than that.”
    He was right I was better than that. Who did these homos think they were? I lived in New York for eight years. All of these boys had come from the back woods of Kentucky and West Virginia where no one liked them because they were socially awkward. Now, they were in the “big city” and thought that their shit didn’t stink because they worked on Capitol Hill and made twenty-nine thousand dollars a year. Well, I had a news flash for all of them. I came from New York, which automatically made eight million other people and me, cooler than anyone that lived in D.C. After only having lived in D.C. for a few months, I was already ready to move. D.C. was not for me as I hate politics and that’s all anyone seemed to talk about. It was as if no one had a life of his or her own. Everything revolved around something else. Politics, occupations, other people’s gossip and problems, it was as if no one had anything important to say. Never was I at a loss for conversation in New York. Everyone is so colorful and has a story to tell up there. As I left work that day, I was planning my getaway. I figured if I had spent just a few more weeks in D.C., and saved some money, I could leave and never come back. As I was plotting my escape, I was walking up 18th street toward Adams Morgan. Adams Morgan is a neighborhood in D.C. that must be what the eighth circle of hell is like. Every night, underage college kids congregate in Adams Morgan to get black out drunk and make complete asses of themselves. It’s a constant shit show, with girls throwing their brains up on the street, frat boys getting into petty fights over girls and pimps whoring out their latest prizes. It’s an absolutely disgusting display of what the bottom wrung of humanity looks like, but it was on my way to the subway and I had to get home immediately to plot my escape from D.C.
    I walked up the hill to get to the top of 18th street so I could get on the subway. To my left, I saw two bitches in tight tube-tops squawking about how one of them had stolen the other’s boyfriend. In front of me, I saw the lights of the bars in Adams Morgan. I hoped to bypass this neighborhood completely, but the other Metro station was broken, as usual, so I had no choice.
    As I was walking up the street, I was suddenly shoved down onto the concrete. My forehead hit the pavement and my nose smashed up against the curb. Two men came in front of me and started kicking me in the stomach repeatedly. I could not get up so I just tried to cover my face. After all, it is the moneymaker. I could taste blood in my mouth. Just as quickly as the beating had started, the men were finished and ran away. I lay on the pavement in pain, wondering if anyone was around to help me. Strangely, it was as if everyone around me had disappeared. No longer were the slutty girls fighting over a guy; the pimps and whores had vanished and I was alone. I got up, with blood dripping from my nose and face. Of course, the one night I leave my rape whistle at home is the night I get mugged. I began to scream for help. I could see that there were cops across the street giving parking tickets but either they could not hear me, or did not want to help me. I had to get help from someone and I didn’t know what to do. As I