Last week I went around NYC for work but ended up enjoying my time there. Me and a few of my friends strolled around: Manhatten, Union Station, Harlem, the Bronx and eventually ended up in Soho, where we pigged out on Pinkberry frozen yogurt plus ate creole related dishes at this Zagat rated dive.
Around mid-day, we heard a loud crunch noise then saw a red faced girl in a lopsided NorthFace jacket screaming, crying and running aimlessly in circles. I figured she stepped on dog poo and wanted to be a drama queen in NYC. Boy, was I wrong.
She and her posse crossed the street towards where my crew was. We chatted for a clean 5 minutes and within that time, my eyes wouldn’t leave that specific spot she stomped on from across the street.
Apparently, as this girl was dawdling on, a mammoth-sized rat approached her. She yelped as it scurried in between her legs and tried to step away but failed. Her Uggs crushed it to death.
A pool of blood oozed out of the rat’s half-dead body. Even as I peered back, I saw its leg and tail twitch sporadically. That scenario played in my head over and over again. I couldn’t erase it out of my mind.
Bystanders were in awe of the barely breathing rat. One guy even took a picture. My friend Diddy took a picture of that same guy taking a picture of that dead rat. Even I became a conformist and took a picture of that guy taking a picture of that decrepit, flesh torn rat.
I wouldn’t publish that picture on this blog because I don’t want to be held responsible for another person’s mental anguish. Whatever the case is, I can never walk the streets of Soho again without thinking about what my feet could possibly step on if I don’t look twice.