Post-Traumatic Strike Disorder

Via Slate:

Over the course of the three days of the strike, I walked barefoot through all five boroughs and urinated powerfully in every major waterway in the tri-state area. I crossed the Brooklyn Bridge nine times, often with a German shepherd sitting on my shoulders. At a bus terminal in Maine, where I was waiting for a shuttle back to Times Square, I lost six teeth to a gypsy cab driver in an illicit game of chance. I rode from Staten Island to Queens on a tandem bicycle with a paraplegic homeless man. I watched a group of rats—forced out of the subways by the sudden lack of fresh garbage—pile themselves into a 6-foot mound, put on a police uniform, and direct pedestrians into a manhole. I hotwired a police car. I traded one of my kidneys for a sip of hot chocolate. I delivered a premature baby in the back of a sinking catamaran. I had my tongue pierced in a Zoroastrian ritual while rappelling down the Chrysler Building. I became fluent in a dialect of German spoken exclusively by a colony of anarchist street dentists squatting in the nave of St. Patrick's Cathedral. I made love, against my will, to a styrofoam effigy of Mayor Bloomberg. By the time I got to work, nearly three days late, I had missed the office Christmas party and my job had been outsourced to Philadelphia.

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