Of course the cocksucker was from New York

by Matt Rudnitsky

I had been deathly sick for the first three days of my six-day trip to Iceland, so I sat in my stiff hostel bed, shivering in 70-degree weather, unable to sleep. JUST SHUT OFF, BRAIN, YOU INCOMPETENT FUCK! It must have been too smart to listen.

Then I woke up to an obnoxious scream. A 40-ish-year-old bald, rugged hiker-looking man (why are you in an 8-bed hostel room?) craned his head from the top bunk to get in my trembling face.

“YOU’RE SO LOUD! FUCK YOU! STOP!” Ironic volume.

I was so stuffed I couldn’t breathe through my nose, so I imagine I was snoring like tits.

I guess I had fallen asleep.

I had never punched anyone before. I had never wanted to punch a bald cocksucker before.

I think I didn’t do it because my brain was working too slowly to process. I took a breath. “Sorry.” I got up, took the book next to me, and went to the lobby couch to stare at the same page for an hour, “reading.”

I wondered if I should have punched the bald cocksucker. Did he know how shitty I felt? I had finally fallen asleep. Fuck him! Being in Iceland for fun sucks!

A nice female roommate walked out and assured me I wasn’t going insane. “That guy was fucking insane.”

I love everyone. Most people are nice. I feel bad for the mean ones. That scream seemed to deplete the poor man.

The next day I could breathe a sliver through my nose and dragged myself, alone, to Þingvellir National park. It was pretty and fun.

That guy was probably angry and sad. Who cares. I found out he was from New York. Of course he was from New York. I’m from New York. Of course I’m from New York?

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