My roommate brought home her friend Sam.
Sam was an attractive man. Tall, dark, and lanky, just was my type.
My roommate had such interesting friends.
She was interesting, herself. She was a peculiar, shining soul, filled with Buddhist drive and love.
Sam was her schizophrenic homeless friend.
She clicks her pen incessantly. It’s such an ingrained habit that she doesn’t even know that she’s doing it.
He noticed, though.
There were others in the waiting room. Some wearing masks, some looking hung over, and one who stared mindlessly at her own twiddling fingers. The clicking caught his attention first, but the woman clack click clacking was what endlessly held it.
Facebook is rather amazing.
I’ve connected with folks I thought I’d never hear from again.
The pictures are my favorite part. I love to go through and analyze what I find. It’s second nature. So… for all of my Facebook friends, I apologize in advance (or afterwards, depending on when I did it) for analyzing the hell out of you. It’s just… I can’t help it.
A stranger crosses the street in front of me.
I must slam on the brakes as I realize that she will not cross quickly enough before our paths cross.
It’s raining. She clasps the shawl over her head, her paunchy arm arching like a tea pot handle to the top of her head. My head lights cut her unctuous body in half at her waist. Wet, short drips stream from the tip of her nose. Rain drops or tears? She doesn’t turn to look at me.
Writers characterize people. That’s what I do. It’s not like I just went through nearly six years of a degree in Psychology to not study people. They’re what I love, they’re what I do. Analyze. Study. Read.
It’s funny. I was commenting to Landon just the other night that I can’t understand how someone could know another person in real life, know that they have a blog or other means of publication, and not have to read it. For every person I know who has a blog– and hundreds more I’ve never even met!!– I read their stuff religiously. I recognize that some people don’t have the time I do to sit in front of the computer. I get that… but even if I didn’t have a whole lot of time, I would still be addicted to knowing what it was that they’re putting out there, for everyone to see.
There was a woman on the bus yesterday who caught my eye. She sat at the front of the bus, and was on it when the driver began his route. She had shown him her half sheet of paper, presumably with directions on it.
She didn’t speak a word of English, only had her half sheet of paper.
I “met” Joshua on the morning bus out to Aurora. I had been riding the bus for many months, and eventually began to recognize the regulars. Joshua particularly stuck out: he was blonde with a buzz cut, had glasses, always wore the same Avalanche jacket, and daily he spouted out a contagious “Hi! How Are You?! GOOD Morning!!! Pretty good, thanks! It’s going pretty good. How are you?! Pretty good so far, thanks!”
I awake to find myself on the bus. It is crowded here. People stare at me, the white woman, finding herself there, on the back of the bus, wondering how the hell I got there and where we are all going.
There is an ebb and flow of people, getting on and off at each stop. I can’t see the street names. I look around to orient myself, but the signs are all fuzzy, and I don’t recognize the buildings.
