Time passes quickly when in the midst of an emotional seizure, and I could tell this was going to be a bad one that would send me into a tailspin. I knew the fear was coming on when I started asking myself deep questions while traveling on the subway. Flanked by strangers staring blankly into space (and one homeless man who soiled himself then subsequently fell asleep in his own mess), I began wondering what this was all about. Living in New York is not easy, pleasant, or even profitable for a guy like me. Was I being punished here? Was this the GOP playing games with me? Some kind of messed up Truman Show as revenge for the incident in Nevada during the last Republican Primary? How long would I have to pay for my poor judgement of mixing shrimp empanadas, dangerously large amounts of cerveza preparada, and Mitt Romney? These questions bothered me until I reached my stop at Fulton Street on the 2 train. I walked to my day job in a bit of a haze, squinting in the sun and craving good coffee. When I reached the elevator bank in my office building I punched the number 23 to get up to the call center I was tethered to for 8 hours a day. This is not where I pictured myself at this point. But, to be fair, I've rarely been where I pictured myself and I was getting used to it. It's actually why I take pictures, to prove to myself that I actually was somewhere. I tell myself it's so that other people know where I have been, and that perhaps in some way that will bring awareness, joy, concern, or change to a certain place or issue. I tell myself that all the time but I don't know if that's true, I think I just need proof that I exist. It's a compulsion, an addiction and I love it. It may be a vice, but it's mine.