I’m talking about huge apples. I’m talking about the kind so big and round that the little fuzz-thing on the bottom very much does NOT touch the surface the fruit sits on. A butt at the bottom. A Double_U. Dont tell me i eat too many of them, because i eat nothing else. If you criticize, I expect a list of suggestions that I can look over as I’m re-evaluating my whole value system. Or, I can just shrug it off. “I’m at the store. What Kind of apples do you want cause I always forget.” “Whatever’s the biggest.” “Really?” “Yeah.”

The monthly pass on the LIRR satiates my craving for invisibility. NO clicky motions needed from the conductor to ensure that I am here, not even a look in the eye. It’s a dream come true. Know i’m here enough to NOT ask me for anything concret. I’d use that pass in other areas if it were more widely accepted

I was talking to her about patience and how i have none. Walking behind slow movers in the supermarket. What are they STARING at – old couples with gaping mouths staring through the glass in the fozen food section, as if the ice cream will move on its own. Like, if you stare long enough the flavor you want (which this week is not in stock) will appear and do the Charleston into your cart. You know what I do when I don’t find the things I like? I get into my car and drive to the other store. There are truly four things in life (in a supermarket) that I like. Meanwhile I’m stuck behind the slow moving, one at a time cucumber inspecting woman who should just be taken out in the parking lot and……………I hold myself though. I wait patiently. Unless there’s a screaming child present and that throws off all kinds of meditations I try to calm myself with. With a mother who’s too busy looking for the exact diet soda to shut him/her up. In that case, I hate the mother. SO much hatred. Only because I must drive back home, make chit chat as i walk through the living room, make my way to the ice box (I don’t have an ice box, but i like saying it) and stock. Then smile sorta and walk up to my room. My room which has nothing but a laptop plugged in and a shiney green light exploding from the side of it in pitch black darkness. Sometimes orange light. My room has more than that in it. It has a lot of beads and pink and books. Books. And a TV. I don’t want to make contact with you as i run downstairs and do my thing. I just want to run downstairs and run back up. No talkie. No talkie. Just shuttie. Take the shuttle down to shuttie-ville. People who speak to me, well, their noise does a small, constant smack on the back of my neck and I just want to slam a door in their faces. (but I don’t because I don’t like apologizing.

I sat on the train next to some baseball fan and his cute kids hiding under my hood. The song, plus the energy plunge, plus the awareness that I was going home on an empty stomach made me cry. I was able to do it quietly. I’ve been wanting to do it since about 1 pm today. I could sense it coming on. I will never like Shea Stadium or Baseball and Hot Dogs and if i do and have to wear that stupid cap with my turkey-looking husband and kids, I’ll divorce it all, I swear to God. I’ve always had weird feelings about super sportsfans who have to go sit in the audience and OBSERVE because it’s not like they’re PLAYING the sport. How Lazy. Ok, so they may like the GAME aspect of it, how they’re looking down at people “fighting” but but but but there’s really no fun in that for me. I just want people to win. I want hugs. I want crying and throwing into the dirt and blood and then a big hug. And an apology. And then a cigarette. You know? I have no interest in “the game.” I fear men sitting in my future living room watching “The Game” and eating chips. GET OUT – GET OUT OF MY LIVING ROOM! Unless we’re watching blood and people potentially getting beaten to death, I don’t find this fascinating at all. Again, something I may have to get over in the next six months or so. For my own sanity. But the cherry on-top, or the kicker as most of ’em say, is that I friggin loved that sob on the train.


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