black circle

You know how in movies and teen dramas, the usually well-paced and impeccably-dressed protagonist occasionally wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, has several pratfalls, encounters terrible people, and ends up looking a little worse for wear? And how there will be a scene in which there will be a dramatic breakdown, and said character will be all, like, "I'm sorry, I'm just having a very bad day," and upon this specific utterance everything terrible vanishes? Is this still a thing?

This morning I stepped into the train and discovered that someone had puked quite explosively all over the train cabin. Fleeing into the next cabin, I had the misfortune to meet a poster child for birth control who wanted to alight whenever the train doors opened, and threw a tantrum whenever his parents held him back. I was surprised to discover he wasn't retarded, and more surprised that his parents didn't let him run out into the station to leave him there forever. 

Then I had to change trains, but not before finding myself standing in the same line as a curmudgeonly old hag — wearing black tights because her delusions had led her to mistake immaturity for youth and fashion forwardness — who decided to pick a fight with a meek-looking man trying his best to avoid her. She was bitching about the queue. It's like, SORRY you're having such a hard time with your menopause and everything, but if you need to bitch you should bitch about more worthwhile topics like violence against women in developing countries. She will die without the knowledge of true happiness.

After which, I had to trudge down for choir practice, and that sucked for me because maybe I am not cut out for singing, and, speaking of cut, cut out my vocal cords already! They are no longer of any use to me. Give them away to someone who wants them, donate them to the Salvation Army, sell them to Damien Hirst so he may suspend them in a vat next to a shark and call it Art, I don't care. The ability to speak is the root of humanity's problems (I can't be bothered to substantiate this claim) and all I want to do is live in a cabin in a forest and perhaps die there, quietly, among the pines and the bulrushes, so that tawny owls may carry off my bones, scattering them throughout the woods while a Fleet Foxes song plays. It's all very Walden.