[ IP ] Can anyone write a short story about this image ( Beast of Hoboken ) ?

The day I got the nose ring the atmosphere of the whole city was unsettled. Everything was depressed – me, the news, the sky. I wanted to shake it up, to shake it all off, these past weeks of rain. It took me most of the afternoon to walk across Hoboken, no buses or taxis were allowed on the roads, and the recoding played over the loudspeakers told me that even I had to be off of them by seven o ’ clock. It was barely two miles straight through the city, but taking the passable streets, marked out with green circles painted on retaining walls and buildings, lead one on a longer, zigzagging path. When I fell, it was inevitable; I took in a generous mouthful of puddle water. Its bouquet was heady and sweat, similar to acetone, but it burned going down, coating my throat with a soapy film. I could only take shallow breathes after that, and bubbles crept up my throat to burst against my eyes with each one. I arrived, finally, completely filthy. The foundation of the tattoo parlor was ringed in a dry crust of motor oil; the water in this part of town had receded. Or, maybe it would return after low tide. The familiar protocols of the shop didn ’ t calm the itch that drove me there. If anything, my restlessness grew while I was inside. I harbored hope of relief being dose dependent and asked for a second piercing, dropping a few more bills on the counter. My skin jerked out of the piercer ’ s deft hands to twitch against the bones of my face. We escaped the needle, running down red marked roads, the smell of acetone growing stronger and more pleasant. We were so high, so free for a while. When I became self-aware again, I regretted that I never got the lip ring I paid for. Everything else, this body, I had to accept.
