Ah, Douglas Adams - may you rest in peace - I think of you often. The fact that I'm turning 42 this year gives me hope that I may finally find out the answer to it all. Like so many peeps my age, without even thinking about it, I make references to the Hitchhiker's Guide in my everyday life. (Babel Fish, anyone?) One Hitchhiker-ism that stays with me is the concept of taking a year off dead for tax purposes, as was the case with a character in the Restaurant at the End of the Universe.
Taking a year off dead for tax purposes, indeed.
I'd really, really, really, very sincerely like to be him right now.
This has been a tough week. The car is still inoperable, the bus in my neighborhood is working on a "we take a detour sometimes" schedule, which means being at the bus stop at 6-something in the ayem, hoping that one will come eventually and get me to the Metro early enough so I don't have to hobble-run to the office, and my back is screaming so much, I'm considering taking my very last Vicodin tonight.
I'm trying (and failing) at smiling through some encounters with "difficult people" lately, and I cannot help but feel a little like a karmic punching bag. Today found me wondering if I was just being paranoid and then realizing that, no, indeed, some people actually were out to get me! I hope this bad karma will fade. Hope, hope, hope.
Let's face it - I knew the week was going to suck when I got the flat, knowing that I can no longer afford to just say, "Oh, just fix it, thanks!" But I really knew the week was going to suck like nobody's business when I sat in someone else's poop on the Metro.
Crap. Doodie. A big dump. A right royal mess. In need of a scooper.
After waiting almost an hour and a half for the damn bus, I got to the Grosvenor Metro station, bolted for the Red Line train to Silver Spring, and was rewarded with a seat at the end of one of the cars. Ahhhh. A quiet ride to Farragut North! One stop down the line, I realized there is a copy of Express sitting on the seat with me. What the hell, I thought. I'll do a little reading.
As I pulled the paper up, it seemed a bit... heavy. It slid against my leg... aaaaand voila! Yes, the Express was being used to cover someone's surprise dump. Before I even made it to the Bethesda Metro, I had shit smeared on my black pants. SON OF A BITCH!
I had to get off at Bethesda, let someone know about the Express-hidden poop and tug at my shirt all the way back to Grosvenor, hoping no one thought I'd just crapped myself. Of course, since the bus to my 'hood was (and still is) running a strange schedule - and I wasn't about to call a cab and have myself thrown out for making a mess, I had to make the nearly one-mile walk of shame back to my apartment, change clothes, and start this whole thing again.
Waiting for the bus, a motherless fawn attempted to adopt me at the bus stop. I felt terrible for the poor guy as I tried to shoo him away. I kept imagining he was thinking, "Will you be my mom?" Which, of course, made me feel worse.
At least there wasn't any poop in my Metro seat on my second ride downtown.
I'm trying to be zen and hope that tomorrow will be a better day than today. Friday, I get paid, so I can have the car towed to NTB and see if the tire can be saved. My bet is no, but we'll see.
Right now, I'm just dog tired. My dreams have been near hallucinatory lately, and I have to wonder what tonight will bring. My favorite of the past week: a Fox reality game show where you shoot giant rare fish underwater with dart guns... with "celebrity" teammate Tara Reid (and her lopsided boobies stuffed in a bikini.) If you kill enough of the rare critters to cause some sort of icthyo-genocide, you move onto the next round where you get to shoot dart guns at Fox TV executives (again, with Tara Reid - wtf?)... while their families watch. I swear to God, I only had beef vegetable soup for dinner that night. Honest.
Tara Reid, dart gunning rare creatures (and people) for cash, and poop on my Metro seat.
Does it get any better than that? Really?
Dear lord, I hope so!
Yours, from the "I'm on the edge" zone,