and today i worked even though it was supposed to be my day off. i was covering a shift for somebody. at some time we all gotta scratch each others back, and im planning a trip to san francisco. the night wasnt too bad, but i was a wreck when i got there. too much drinking the night before. too late to bed and too early up. fucking afternoon had shattered me. i could barely get dressed to make it out the door. but i did. and i made some bonus money and got drunk for free and copped some weed from my man and was spot on when i counted the drawer.
i stopped at a place on flatbush and 7th ave that me and some friends call 'the dirty kitchen.' its a diner slash bodega slash newspaper stand. it sits on top of a subway entrance, the Q train. they sell everything there. 40oz of Ol' English, all types of magazines (from vogue to king to vibe to O to the journal to black butt to golf digest to murderdog), lottery tickets, sunglasses, potato chips, whatever. we call it the dirty kitchen because, well, the diner kind of has a dirty kitchen. and ive got it on pretty good word that the cook is a crackhead. but the food is perfect at a certain time and in a certain state. come 4am and sloshing home with the munchies, the dirty kitchen is always there when you need it. and tonight on the way home i needed a beer. and guess who was there? the dirty kitchen, thats who. amen.