Moe went roadtrippin'. I miss her. I gave her one of my pillows to take along, reasoning that the male response to favored girl-scent on a pillow was reciprocal. I wasn't sold on the concept entirely, but the transaction was accompanied by sincere smiles, so I'm happy.
Yesterday on the bus, I saw a fat retarded man putting a sweater on. He wriggled it on like an ill-fitting condom-inch by inch until he was reasonably sure it wouldn't come off. He looked pleased afterwards.
Today, I saw a US Mail Service driver gawking out his window at the mestizo hooker I was sharing a bus stop with. He nearly ran over a bicyclist.
On the return bus trip, three confident girls got on from the light rail. Initially, they were accompanied by a middle-aged woman as unattractive as they were, but given that she sat by me and they sat across from me with small but prominently displayed Victoria's Secret bags informed me to the contrary.
They all looked like Heather Matarazzo. There was the vanilla one, the Asian one, the frightening red-haired amateur porn star one, and the one that I was next to.
Initially, I was consumed with curiosity. What could the male equivalent of homely girls promising lingerie be?
Fortunately, the Pizza Luce beer-and-a-shot took hold. I turned my iPod up until the McLusky hurt and settled in for a couple more blocks.
I got home and encountered something so joyous and thrilling, I had to walk to the bar with the off-sale. I thought about drinking there, but after considering the walk back home and the close proximity to many people I didn't know and would never like, I opted for portable potable provisions.
I arrived at home the same time as a couple who moved into my building within days of me starting the new job.
I offered them a couple beers to hang out and shoot the skeet (shit) with me instead of drinking it by myself, which they joked about as being my plan. The beers I gave them were considered hush money to the part of me that agreed with them.
As we were talking about the obscure fantasy novels we read as children, a tattooed red-haired woman appeared and hovered on the fringes. I said something about the 'Incarnations of Immortality' series of Piers Anthony to the couple and the stranger volunteered that her son was named after the protagonist of the series.
Then she asked for a beer.
While I have no love for the name 'Zane,' it beats Bilbo, so I continued to share with new people.
About the time we were wondering who she was (my apartment building is similar to a stair car; watch out for hop-ons), she announced that she did, by the way, live here.
I like the matter-of-factness this house attracts.
Monday will be the first Labor Day I've had off in years. I plan on drinking.