i'm sitting on the edge of the luxury fountain. there's a group of octogenarians behind me, sharing the refreshed filtered air and the cool smooth marble. and then the strangest thing: a new one arrives and once she picks her perch, she doesn't say excuse me, or hey you. she doesn't even clear her throat. she just starts to aim her fat ass at my kidneys, somehow expecting me to instinctively sense the group's new girth as i sit, scribbling, with my back and mind turned from them.
well thankfully, somehow, i do sense her and dodge the buxom buttocks.
why are people so afraid to talk to each other?
maybe because i'm wearing all black, and in her day only roy orbison could get away with that.
or maybe she's just a stupid rich old cunt too coiled in her self-obsession to remember how to interact.
heh, this from the girl with her head hunched over her little red notebook.
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