Tripping the Sprite fantastic

Another workweek is winding down. I’m pretty bummed that I won’t get to see D. again this weekend. Goddam spring-breakers sucking up the e-saver fares. Not a lot to look forward to, either, save for uninterrupted sleep ‘n’ slack. Oh, wait, I guess I’m going to see the Delgados tomorrow night with Teresa. Free ticket! Pre-show Thai food! After that, it’ll be kinda depressing. Just me and the cat.

Today’s Mimi Smartypants was amazing. Serial commas! Manic Panic lipstick! “Kitty!” Spirals run amok! I wish I could think of a way to become her bestest friend and hang out with her, snarking at stupid people, employing perfect grammar, and drinking heavily.

Speaking of lipstick: I am running low on my favorite couple and could stand to upgrade. I love the idea of going for a shade like Pervette or Oh Baby. Could be a good weekend to hit Filene’s. (Especially since I got that oh-so-fat 2.5% increase — raise high, the roofbeams.)

Counting down to my birthday next week. I’m sure that Game Theory’s “Last Day That You’re Young” will start running through my head any second. I don’t want to do a big hoop-de-doo this year. Last year at Macondo was fun, don’t get me wrong. It just seems incredibly indulgent to ask my friends to do something extravagant like that two years in a row. I suppose if T. & K. want to go to Vinny’s Superette, I could be persuaded. Mostly, though, I just want to fornicate and hang out with my sweetie.

More anon. Time to get the hell out of the office and head home.

[latre]

So tonight as I was walking through the T station after an amazingly-uncrowded-considering-there’d-been-a-long-delay-due-to-a-”door problem”  commute, I looked up from my book and kind of gazed around at the station’s interior thinking, “This is my stop, my home” and wondering if D. ever thinks something along those lines when he walks through the Metro station near his house. As I approached the final escalator (not as mamma-jamma enormous as the longest one, but not a short one by any means), I realized that a guy was lying facedown at the foot of the down escalator. A man dressed in what looked to be an official T uniform was crouched beside him. The prostrate young man looked conscious but wasn’t moving a smidge, and there wasn’t any blood that I could see, but the situation didn’t look good. One of those don’t-move-until-the-ambulance-gets-here kind of deals, it seemed. I had this momentary guiltflash like I should be doing something (though what, really, was beyond me — I didn’t have so much as a cell phone on me, and it’s not like I could offer any more helpful first aid than “don’t move”). I guess I didn’t want to be just another disinterested urban gawker. I heard sirens go by my apartment when I got inside, and I hope they were on their way to the young man’s aid. Eesh. I hope he’s OK — maybe stunned and sore, but not seriously hurt. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve flashed to a scene where I’m the one crumpled at the bottom of the escalator, a victim of my rush-rush run-down-the-steps carelessness and too-tall platform shoes.

Not much else to say about the evening. I came home, did some dishes, ate a salad, and read a few more chapters of The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup.

– editrix’s tongue has attained the texture of pumice stone from eating too many Sweet-Tart lollipops



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