Everything gets bitter and hopeful. Like you never know about the couple across the street–like if they’re a couple, e.g. He’s acting like she’s the coolest person he’s ever talked to (and with his outfit, well—I thought only middle schoolers wore cargos and oversized tees—heck, he certainly looks like a middle schooler). She’s all cigarette exhales (nose mouth nose mouth mouth nose) and al fresco cafe occupancy. Coffee? No, thank you.
Later: bus. My knee hurts like hell. A pair of girls gossip—super mad at everything. “I’m the one who has the right to be angry,” she concludes. Which is interesting. No one has the right, specifically speaking, to be angry—an ever-present option isn’t a right—but as I spend eight to ten hours a day waffling between occupational impotence and anesthetized impotence, I really don’t have the moral ground to be telling people what is and isn’t right. Although you work with what you’ve got. Some people get angry. Still—water. I get angry, probably too often. Still—water. You work with what you’ve got. Sometimes you give three bucks to a busker who hasn’t made a cent today. Sometimes you get Channing Marshall and Iggy Pop to tell you what you want to believe so bad. Sometimes you get to hold nail-bitten hands. Most times you just want to feel, despite all the rancid sardine cans and sticky vermouth bottles, like you did something good.