This morning, the 92 smelled like feet. I don't know why. Usually, it's either old cigarettes or the unmistakeable breath of an alcoholic or sunflower seeds (the official snack of the 92, in case you were wondering). More upsetting? The fact that this morning's first bus ride was one of those days where it just quietly reminds you that life would be easier with a car. Nothing funny happened, nobody flashed any body parts... just the smell of feet permeating the air, a creepy old man staring at me with predictably unabashed lust in his eyes, a ridiculously high ratio of disabled to non-disabled riders (seriously, I know that seems wrong, but if the rest of the population were this mobily impaired while also incapable of forming complete sentences, our economy would be in even worse shape) lingering, creating this feeling of ever so slight but nagging discomfort. In some ways, I hoped for the loud, raunchiness I'd come to expect. Like last night, which was so full of activity I haven't even blogged about it. Words so often fail us when trying to describe new stereotypes and unexpected situations. I'll think about it more, maybe I'll write later, but it definitely involved a bunch of drunk transgendered teenagers yelling at one: "Girrrl, I'ma shove this hammer up your ass" to a person with a full beard. I felt confused in so many ways.
At least I had to take the bus again over my lunch break. A Random Crazy Dude (RCD) spilled coffee on me, didn't apologize, then spent the rest of the ride looking at me, cracking up inexplicably, and rapping. Too bad I couldn't decipher his lyrics. They were probably magical.
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