Diary Entry #3

It was the worst of times. 10th through the 16th, with brief thoughts on Luka <3

I’d like to stick to this but the day often gets ahead of me, leaving little room for critical thinking once I’m off the train and nestled underneath the warmth of home. A LOT(!!) has happened since my last entry. Some of you may know I am a diehard Dallas Mavericks fan by the gear I’ve worn, stories I’ve posted, etc. I can say with confidence that on average I’ve watched at least sixty games the last few seasons thanks to the illegal streaming sites and NBA League Pass. So it goes without saying, I am devastated by the events that transpired in the dead of the night a few saturday’s ago. The Knicks-Lakers game had just ended, and I was playing 1v1 on NBA 2k25 when I checked my phone to see if my brother was ready to play. My group chat starts blowing up and the next few hours were a blur. I thought it was fake news.

Dallas fans have had a rough time processing a trade that makes ZERO(!!) sense. One could take a quick gander through r/Mavericks and see that the vibe is bleak with an arrow pointing down. Luka, our 6’8 Slovenian, who spoke several languages, and once scored 73 points in a game, our Luka magic, was unjustly traded away in the dead of the night because he likes a cold one and had honest conditioning issues. That’s the reason y'all. Not because he asked for the trade. He had just closed on a house in the Dallas area. Not because he was a bad teammate or kicked dogs in the stomach and stole from the poor. But because he came into the season out of shape. This is an issue, but not valid enough to explain the thought process of Nico Harrison, the culprit with an obvious power trip, thinking to himself, “Dam, maybe we should trade the face of our franchise away.” Mind you, Luka played 70 games last year and dragged the Mavs to the NBA Finals before running into the buzzsaw that is the Boston Celtics. Mind you he played in the offseason for the Slovenian national team.

The most infuriating aspect of this drama was the fact that Nico initiated the trade, kept it secret until the eleventh hour, shocked the sports world when the news dropped, and got far less than Luka is worth had it been known he was available for trade. To put it in terms all of you can understand: he received a broken-down car with maintenance issues while giving away a fucking Ferrari.

We all thought it was fake news, we all thought Shams was hacked. Would’ve been better had that been the case. A week has passed, and the wound has festered. Things will only get worse from here. Anthony Davis, a great player in his regard, the player Luka was traded for, had a hell of a game up until he was injured late into the third quarter during his debut game in classic AD-fashion. Some fans have canceled their season tickets, others plan to protest the team both inside and around the stadium. It's dire down in Dallas. I hope those responsible feel the full extent of the shame headed their way. May Nico and the Adelson family grasp in their lifetime that they’ve murdered a proud franchise in record time. The Mavs could win a title in the next few years and it would not reverse the harm they’ve caused.

You might be saying Trell, it’s just sports, it's not real, sports are meaningless. You know what, you’re right. STILL! Sports are the ultimate escape for a guy like me, I mean I have to exist in this crappy world that could care less about my well-being, so, allow me I beg. Sports captivate a city in a way few things can. I mean, my brothers are named after Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant after all. I feel bad for the young Mavs fans who now have to see their guy play for the Lakers of all fucking teams. God knows how I would’ve felt had they traded Dirk as he entered his prime. He was supposed to have a statue next to him, but now, just sadness. I leave you with a clip that, to me, is up there in Mavs history. Go be great Luka.

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Monday (10th)

Work usually takes it out of me. My weekends this winter have been saved for low-vibrational activities. Frankly, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to sit and type away about the day. The best I’ve done is keep a Google doc open on my phone where I can write things down. It gives me a point of reference, creating brief moments of reflection.

The common thread throughout the month was a book titled Martyr. You might’ve seen its yellow-black book cover somewhere on the street, on the train, or in the bestseller section of McNally within the last calendar year. If you haven’t, may I suggest picking up a copy? Martyr is a story of existential crisis following Cyrus, an Iranian man left to maneuver the deaths of his parents. His mother was shot down “accidentally” by an American missile that mistook her flight for a fighter jet. In the wake of this tragedy, Cyrus and his father move to a nondescript town in Indiana. It is here that the protagonist grapples with the absurdity of losing a mother, while also coming of age in post 9/11 USA. His father spends the rest of his years working inside a chicken farm, drinking and watching Pacers basketball in the moments between. Cyrus is left to maneuver the world alone once his kin is buried. He turns to drugs, struggles to sleep at night, and ponders the why in illogical events. On a hunch, he travels to New York to visit a terminally ill artist living out her last days discussing, in candid detail, what it feels like to die. It’s a technically sound book, blending humor with grief, and shifting perspectives (between Cyrus, his lover, and a few others) throughout the book.

I finished it in a few weeks, often reading on the train, in the early mornings before work. We’re all alone truly but our aloneness can be a catalyst to bring us together. Books like these provide me with a guideline, a north star. This winter has been particularly brutal, but good art is always there for me.

Tuesday (11th)

Despite it all, I get to work on time. The morning commute is a thankless mission. Long faces, tweakers, one elongated sigh. Could we stop, turn around, and go home? Can we hibernate till the leaves turn green and the wind is much warmer?

It doesn’t help when I’m inundated by grotesque displays of human behavior. 800 dollars spent on a week's worth of groceries. I bag this woman’s groceries while her driver waits, patiently, scrolling his phone for distraction. She’s very rude and walks away from the transaction several times. Several customers line up, sighing, because why wouldn’t they? Everyone’s time is more important than anyone else.

Later in the day, another woman complained about no one answering the phone, before begging for a refund that had already been sent. “I’m sorry, the store is busy and we’re understaffed,” I say. “Sounds like a you problem,” she says, before unraveling several complaints. I laugh, hang up, and continue with my tasks. It's in moments like this when I wish I was one of the severed ones in Severance. There’s something sinister about working, something soul-sucking and dehumanizing. No wonder no one wants to work these days.

I agreed to be something like a gatekeeper for Happier’s event on the fifth floor after work. It’s sold out, I’m told. Between seven and eight, more than one hundred people pull up for a chess event that doubles as a social gathering. I was tasked with scanning QR codes and telling people, “up the stairs”, for extra cash, and, hopefully, good tips.

I watch the Knicks game on my phone and call my mom to check in on my step-father who recently underwent surgery to remove a tumor. We’re still waiting on the treatment plan to remove the remaining cancerous cells. I still can’t wrap my head around it honestly. He’s always been the life of the party, working 50-hour weeks, going to the gym, the embodiment of the strong dad. I try to hold back tears on the train ride home.

Wednesday (12th)

I wake up early, and pump out five sets of push-ups, curls, and squats, while listening to the Bill Simmons podcast. The Luka trade is STILL the talk of the town, and rightfully so. Work is a blur. The same faces, the same brief interactions. The sun sets around 530. Daylight savings could not come fast enough. It's been a long winter.

On the train ride home, I lose myself in IG reels and Reddit, wishing I had a book to read. I’d like to get some writing done, but as always, I’m at the end of my limit. If only I could go to the library or a cafe. Imagine. A library that closes at 12 and not before most people are home from work. They could hire me to work the night shift honestly.

Still, I buck the trend and make the time as I open up my laptop and start this entry. Within an hour, it’s time for sleep.

Thursday (13th)

I awake early as I have two weeks’ worth of laundry to do. As I load my dirty clothes, I notice an increase in the price of the washing machine. $6 now instead of $5. Inflation’s a bitch.

Work breezes by as I’m tasked with fulfilling orders. With each order, I’m required to pick the items, search for substitutes, call the customer to clarify what we do-and-don’t have, process refunds, pack the order, and label it, all while maintaining my duties as a cashier. I make 19 an hour when I should be making 25.

During lunch, I brave the elements for a brief walk around the block. In the warmer months, I was able to bike around and go to the park for lunch. I’m ready for those days again. Work, and all its drama, is getting to be too much to bear.

Things have run their course with the people I dated since I moved back to New York. I am guilty of participating in the situationship-ridden dating culture of our times. I think we put too much emphasis, however, on the individual, and not enough on the systems in place. We want to be held, and crave intimacy, but also must make a living, find time for friends and family, feed ourselves, tend to our community, and sleep. Sure, it's toxic, we could all communicate a bit better, but we deserve some credit considering the climate of our day.

On the way home, the L-train was delayed for half an hour due to a passenger “falling” onto the tracks. The MTA announcer refers to them as an “object being removed” several times. Again, long faces, deep sighs, sharing the same stale air.

Friday (14th)

It's my Thursday. The MTA recently installed screens displaying advertisements. My favorite? The new Stone Island Campaign with Garrett Wilson, Spike Lee, and Jalen Green. As I get off at 8th Avenue, I see a marketing campaign featuring Gigi Hadid, with her gorgeous face speckled across the C-train.

It's Valentine’s Day, a corporate-created holiday about… Love? Hues of pink and red, flower bouquets, chocolate-covered strawberries. Real love is 365 and not reduced to one day of over-the-top displays of affection. Have that, but say you love them every day is all.

I made the most of it. With the few people I’m attracted to that frequent my store, I asked, “No plans tonight?”

Flirting during Valentine’s Day and not ashamed of it. I ordered a 10-inch pepperoni pizza from the kitchen, which came in the form of a heart.

Saturday (15th)

Where would we be without service workers? Doing twice the work for half the pay, they take out the trash, bag our groceries, fill our plates with food made from their hands, put up with our frustrations and microaggressions, and serve as pseudo-therapists. They deserve the respect they rarely receive. I should be able to pay my rent, go out with friends, and have time for creative hobbies. I firmly believe that service work should be mandated by the government because it would change the foundation for the better. The people I work with have two jobs, families to feed, and bills to pay, and are struggling to get by. You’d think there’d be more gratitude but it doesn’t always feel that way.

Certain daily patterns have led me to believe something is deeply wrong within our DNA. For as many people who ask where to toss their trash, there are just as many who leave behind dirty trays and cutlery. (If I’m being fair, there’s a brand of Jell-O being sold in the store, and where two trash containers once were, lay a display for a fish carved from this Jell-O. So I can’t give them full blame, as it's unclear whether we have trash cans. It led to many asking us to toss trash into the container near our registers. Also, of note, a box of this Jell-O is eighty-five dollars.)

Around three, the traffic begins to flow in as the weather turns windy. The snow follows. I do my best job to dissociate the rest of my day. My co-workers are having a blast. It's good to see them smile and thrive despite it all.

I ordered wings and fries for dinner and gamed till around 2 in the morning.

Sunday (16th)

It’s still raining, most of the day. I gamed till three then sat down to write the last bits of this entry. The All-Star game starts around 7 and I’m sad, enraged by the display of carelessness by the NBA. Kevin Hart is being forced fed to the audience and there’s barely any basketball? I think the runtime was three hours but, I saw somewhere, there were only 47 minutes of gameplay. Zach Edey is also on my screen and Lebron is in street clothes. Adam Silver, what you’ve done to my favorite league…

After the game ended, I turned on a movie called Welcome to the Dollhouse which I enjoyed. Absurdity is not saved for adults, children, as well, experience the everyday battles.

I fall asleep to the sounds of the wind bashing the windows in my apartment. I think about the week ahead, and how I want to be more organized. Much to write about. Another week come and gone…