Variety is the Spice of Nothing You Can Eat

There have been so many logged notes in my head that I've been wanting to write about here. For once, real life has been getting in the way.

You know. Real life. And a motorcycle. (Andreadingworkfriendsloversarthappinessmiserysleepingnotsleepingblap.)

Just now, i asked an anon sales guy (they are on a different moon from reporters and editors in newsrooms) why he's been on crutches for the memorable past. He cla-clunks around our tremendous office very slowly. Cha-chick. Cha-chick. I have never spoken to him before.

"What happened there anyway?" I ask him. He is short and heavy and generally pleasant seeming.

"It's a long, long story," he says. "It involves unrequited love."

We leave it at that.
(Cha-chick. Cha-chick.)

This morning I overheard a couple of oldish women in the locker room at the gym. They were on the other side of my row of lockers.

"She was orphaned." [Pronounce: awe-fand.]

"What do you mean?"

"Her mother died. Then her stepfather died. Then her father died, then her stepmother." [Some approximation of this death-progression. Pronounce: muthah, stepfathah, fathah, stepmotha.] "And then her mother's sister didn't want her."

From there, I lost them amid the sound of hairdryers. I picked the thread back up with:

"And then he left her for a much younger woman. I blame society for that. That it's become okay to do that."

And then I wondered about the merits of not doing that.

And then I left the gym.

I know a man who shears off parking signs for entire blocks so he won't have to move his car in the morning.

My ex-brother-in-law used to sneeze when he had to pee.

The other night I met a space hipster [read: "tremendous dork"] with a "fetish for hospital bracelets." I blame myself for accruing that information because I asked him why he was wearing one.

"Fucktard" is my new favorite word.