(no subject)
I saw more substance abuse than usual during my commute today.
While I was waiting for the light rail, a woman walked out of the Rite-Aid across the street clutching a really cheap-and-nasty-looking jug of scotch. She looked kinda lost, as if the plastic bottle of alcohol was the only thing she knew was real. Maybe it was.
After I got off the lightrail, there was a guy in black clothes with two black sharpie lines drawn across his eyes, from forehead to chin, as if in clown makeup. He was begging for bus money, but I've seen him five or six times now at the same stop, and he's never gotten on any of the busses. Today he looked pretty strung out. I don't know enough about drugs to tell you which one he was on.
On the next bus, there was a couple in front of me downing shots of cough syrup in preparation for their history class. Their eyes looked dead.
The nervous guy in my music theory class drank an entire red bull in one go. He said he had another one in his backpack.
On the return train, there was a black guy across the aisle reeking of pot, and munching on a box of KFC. Talk about stereotypes.
The final bus stop had a clique of teenagers smoking cigars that gave off a smell somewhere between cedar and burnt rubber. I had to stand next to them for twenty-five minutes because the bus was late. I'm told there's no wind in hell either.
After the rain last week, the cigarette butts scattered on the ground (all over the ground) have started to disintegrate, spewing brown tobacco grit and wispy gray filter fiber all over the ground. The fresh urine on the stairs combined with this to make a cutting odor that lingered in my nose for several minutes. There's a bathroom near the foot of the stairs, but I guess somebody couldn't be bothered to walk that far.
And this is why I hate Sacramento. Thankfully it's not warm enough yet for the seam to widen, underneath the back row of seats on the older generation of busses, and start spewing exhaust and hot air into the cabin; but like Caesar, I cannot escape the Ides of March. And like clockwork, I'll be on the bus four hours a day, five days a week; stuck inside a moving prison with the most pathetic inmates this city can dredge up, wishing I was anywhere but here.
I'm counting the days until May 18th. In one hour it'll be 106...
While I was waiting for the light rail, a woman walked out of the Rite-Aid across the street clutching a really cheap-and-nasty-looking jug of scotch. She looked kinda lost, as if the plastic bottle of alcohol was the only thing she knew was real. Maybe it was.
After I got off the lightrail, there was a guy in black clothes with two black sharpie lines drawn across his eyes, from forehead to chin, as if in clown makeup. He was begging for bus money, but I've seen him five or six times now at the same stop, and he's never gotten on any of the busses. Today he looked pretty strung out. I don't know enough about drugs to tell you which one he was on.
On the next bus, there was a couple in front of me downing shots of cough syrup in preparation for their history class. Their eyes looked dead.
The nervous guy in my music theory class drank an entire red bull in one go. He said he had another one in his backpack.
On the return train, there was a black guy across the aisle reeking of pot, and munching on a box of KFC. Talk about stereotypes.
The final bus stop had a clique of teenagers smoking cigars that gave off a smell somewhere between cedar and burnt rubber. I had to stand next to them for twenty-five minutes because the bus was late. I'm told there's no wind in hell either.
After the rain last week, the cigarette butts scattered on the ground (all over the ground) have started to disintegrate, spewing brown tobacco grit and wispy gray filter fiber all over the ground. The fresh urine on the stairs combined with this to make a cutting odor that lingered in my nose for several minutes. There's a bathroom near the foot of the stairs, but I guess somebody couldn't be bothered to walk that far.
And this is why I hate Sacramento. Thankfully it's not warm enough yet for the seam to widen, underneath the back row of seats on the older generation of busses, and start spewing exhaust and hot air into the cabin; but like Caesar, I cannot escape the Ides of March. And like clockwork, I'll be on the bus four hours a day, five days a week; stuck inside a moving prison with the most pathetic inmates this city can dredge up, wishing I was anywhere but here.
I'm counting the days until May 18th. In one hour it'll be 106...