I just discovered the most amazing thing ever: Frozen Pop Tarts. Fuck the toaster, man.

Life’s so rad right now. It’s been a good couple of days.  

I skipped class today, slept in, then spent an obscene amount of time showering and getting ready to go nowhere. I curled my eyelashes for like, 20 minutes; they’re at a 90 degree angle. Called Julie, who happened to be having a bad day and vowed to take her out and have FUN! Took several shots of three different liquors, put on my sweet  Ray-Ban Wayfarers and headed down to the Ave. Hugged Teresa, warned Jen about that creeper Tom, almost fell down laughing about something I can’t remember now. Later we’re at a little restaurant on Pike (or was it Pine?), giggling over Mojitos and too expensive pasta, making eyes at the guy who re-fills our water glasses.

“How do you spell faux?”

“Um, F-O.”

“No, like, the French way. Is it F-A-U-X?”

Our waiter had a sweet faux-hawk. We told him so on our comment card.

I think it's called Karma

I bussed it down to the U-District today to get my tattoo touched up. Unfortunately, they were booked for the day, so I made and appointment for next Saturday. I got a little shopping in and started heading for home after an hour.

Around Roosevelt and 75th a early-twenty-something guy gets on the bus and sits next to me. Whilst reading his worn paperback copy of of I, Jedi, he proceeds to fart every minute or so for the remainder of the bus ride. It was fucking disgusting. He’d even lift up a little to let them escape, and smirk while doing so.

I was feeling light headed from holding my breath by the time we got to Northgate.

“That’s my bus!” the Flatulence wispered while standing suddenly, and in the process, knocking his head against the hand rail. He then flew from the bus, without paying, and started sprinting to the parked 346.

Now everyone knows the 346 leaves at 5 and 35 minutes after the hour and it happened to be 5:29. Everyone except this guy, apparently, cause he was running, hard.

His cell phone flies out of his pants pocket. He doesn’t notice. In that moment, the planets aligned and the universe smiled down upon me. I saw it happen in almost slow motion: as his phone sweeps in a slow arch across the overcast sky, the 41 bus pulls into the transit center. In seemingly perfect choreography, the phone hits the pavement a mere second before the bus runs it over.

I laugh. Hard.

By now he’s standing at the empty 346, the driver gone, the door closed. A middle aged woman fishes his smashed phone out from under the bus and jogs toward him.

“Sir! Sir! You dropped your phone,” she yells.

“AND it got run over by the bus!” I add with an hearty laugh.

On school and vomit.

It’s the first day of Spring Quarter. My Sociology teacher looks like a composite of Mr. Rogers and Ronald Regan. And my Art History text book weighs, by my rough guesstimation, 7lbs. It has three built in ribbon page markers. You know it’s serious business when it has three built in ribbon page markers

A woman threw up on the bus today. I didn’t realize what was going on until a woman wearing a yellow baret in an adjacent seat suddenly jumped up and asked the bus driver for paper towels and three youths let out a collective “Ewww.” The woman in the yellow baret collected various paper towels, napkins and plasic bags from other riders and went to work cleaning up a stranger’s vomit. It was actully quite amazing. She was so organized, quick, and stoic. In less than 10 blocks the vomit was whiped up and the vomiter had been shuffled off the bus and left at a route that would take her to the community health clinic.

This made me realize a couple things:

1) I’m really glad I have don’t have a weak stomach and only puke when I’m extreamly ill or extreamly intoxicated, the former being qutie rare and at which times I wouldn’t be riding around on the bus.

2) I could never clean up a stranger’s puke. Mad props to the lady in the yellow baret for taking care of the situation.

There was a little boy running rampant through my store today. His name was Seymour and he liked Dragonball Z.

Seymour? Seriously? Poor kid.

It reminded me of this time at my last store when I was helping this ridiculous Bellevue couple. Their kid, about 4 or 5 years old and wearing sweatpants up to his armpits, was named Townsend. I kept accidentally calling him “Town and Country.”