People I'm Next To

I'm next to this Centari. He has a wild crest of hair, and is wearing a military style jacket, adorned with baroque jewelry and has similarly wild bushy eyebrows. He is also trapped in a small box in my living room. Well to be fair he is trapped in a small group of digital video discs that stay in my living room. I'm being anti social and not leaving my house, but I am trying to be better about updating the blog regularly. It gives me the illusion of productivity, even though I am really just wasting my day watching Babylon 5. Its a pretty good day.

I'm next to this dude. He has great hair. It is this wavy understated pompadour. He looks like someones handsome boyfriend from a romantic comedy, the one the male lead has to compete with in order to win the affections of the female lead. I'm not certain if he has the terrible character flaws necessary to be the boyfriend, but I am certain he is clumsy, and sneaky. We are sitting in a coffee shop, and he is sipping a drink. A bottomless cup of house blend. The dark roast. I know this for certain because he just ordered it twice. He was set up in a cozy leather armchair. This laptop topping his lap, keeping him toasty in the poorly heated shop. While settling though he spills his coffee. He doesn't react like I'd expect though. Rather than make a dramatic leap up to save his laptop, he calmly lifts the computer up, his face carries a very resigned expression. He has done this before. He glances around, and provides a perfect example to visual define the w

I'm next to this girl. There is a bow in her hair, a real live not ironic bow, with teddy bears decorating it. Her shirt is purple and cable knit and she has bright blue jeans leading to white and pink sneakers. She is a strange sight, with the backdrop of her friends. All meticulously dressed in high lady type fashion, and this girl in the casual ten year old girl garb. Also,her legs are one solid width all the way down, they look fake. It's not a weight thing, I don't think, just a weird thing, maybe an optical illusion, or a strange birth defect. The point is her legs are weird. The other point is while I was awkwardly trying to determine if she had bad prosthetics, she burbled. I think thats the name for the sound she is making. Its an odd thing to not really know a word for a sound a person is making, but here I am. I thought is she gurgling? No. I thought is she warbling? No Is she gargling? No. Is she bubbling? No, is that even a word for a noise? She was m

I'm next to this guy. His curly blond hair reminds me of renaissance painting of a cherub. Those flying babies always had curly blond hair. Now that I'm thinking aout babies, he has the face of a baby too. Not a baby face, which is an adult with baby features, which is cute. Instead, it is the face of a baby stretched out over an adult skull, which is not cute. Which is mildly terrifying. But I don't want to talk about his face. I would like to talk about his penis, and his views on his penis, and the penis of a friend. Apparently, the man baby is uncircumcised. Apparently he is proud about this, I know both of these things because he is loud about this. I also know his friend is uncircumcised, and that the man baby has opinions on this, opinions which he is sharing ad nauseam at his friend. Not with his friend, but at his friend. "My orgasms are much more intense than yours can ever be, on account of your debilitation. I am much more in tune with my penis,

I'm next to this old man. He has white thin hair on a head that seems to be too heavy for his thin old man neck. He is wearing a leather jacket, not like a cool bike gang leather jacket, but like the leather jacket that someones dad wears. The rest of his cloths are black. Black shoes, black pants, black socks, black scarf and black gloves. We are both at a coffee shop, I am on my laptop, he is using the pay for minute public computers. This presumably because he is an old man, and is scared to have a computer in his home. Old people are scared of being alone with computers. He is on You Tube, and is having trouble at first I feel bad for him. I stealthily peak over his shoulder, and see that he is searching for 'the Novas,' He is so cute a doddering old man looking for some old band. Adorable. When he finally figures it out, though, I suddenly find myself with amazingly less sympathy and appreciation for his cuteness. Without warning the speakers start spraying

I'm next to this white guy. Normally, I try to shy away from racially identifying people on this blog, not because I'm sensitive to these issues, but because I'm terrfied of being confronted as a racist. But this dude is pretty white. He kind of looks like Paul Rudd's younger brother. He is wearing a Bruce Springstein shirt, with three quarters sleeve, softball style. Maybe he is on a team, maybe he is in the E. Street band, maybe he is on the E. Street band's softball team. Its pretty white either way, but thats not what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is rhythm. This dude is singing karaoke, I won't bother to say which song, just imagine a song some white guy would sing, it is that one. He is almost entirely still as he sings. Rigor mortis still. His mouth opens and closes with a harsh mechanism and looks awkward and strange. But, his foot is what holds interest. He has brown suede shoes on, his left for is still, but his right foot i

I'm next to this short guy. He is pretty short, but he has a fluffy red and white hat with a pom on the top of it, it adds a few inches. Some curly black hair is escaping from the side of his hat feeds into his winter time beard. He has on a black coat, purple pants, and is carrying a skate board. Its an odd type of skate board, I think its called a long board, but I was uncoordinated and chubby as a youth so I don't really know abut these things. It is pretty long, so you know, long board makes sense. He has just entered this coffee shop in a gust of cold wind, a determined look on his face. He crosses the shop with a firm and brisk pace, and fixes his gaze on the man behind the counter. The barista nods, and gets out a, "Hey Steve," before Steve, I guess, interrupts him. "You have Cherry Coke?" The server, blink and makes a questioning noise. Steve reiterates, mild frustration coming through in his voice. "Do you have Cherry Coke?" The ser

I'm next to this guy. He is pointlessly pontificating in a faded black t shirt, brown cargo pants. He has terrible hair, it has been hacked at some recent point, hacked I say, at least it matches his patchy beard which looks less like facial hair and more like spiny bristles to ward away predators, the perfect defense mechanism. Not that he needs it, his voice is enough to keep the bravest at bay. He is using it now. He says things like, 'I have a chronic inability to be precise, generally,' or, 'Hymns really bore me, I mean they are never sung as intended.' I can't tell what would annoy me more; if he was really expressing sincere thoughts, or simply pretending to have opinions of things that no one has opinions on. Hymns? Really man? Its been a long three centuries since anyone has had a single opinion on hymns. He gestures as he talks, grand academic hand signs that signal to you how cultured the possessor of such hands must be. How grand, how info

I'm next to this guy. He has mid nineties rock star hair, Rossdale not Kiedas, a red t-shirt, and a scruffy beard. He is focused on his laptop. Really focused. He looks pretty intense, brooding eyes, pursed lips, I'm almost convinced he is faking it. Except of course for the sweat. I thought he spilled something on himself at first. This was a flawed theory, unless he spilled it under both arms and in his hair. There are these large dark splotches under his arm and down through the middle of his chest. He is not sweating a lot, he is sweating too much. He is changing the barometric pressure in the room, affecting weather patterns, he is like a walking tidal wave. Surprisingly his lips are cracked and dry. Perhaps his abnormal sweating is dehydrating him, like some weird Greek myth, surrounded by the fluid he needs while he dries out. Persperitus the Dessicated. I wonder if its glandular. I wonder if he has to change his clothes more than once a day. I wonder if

I'm next to this guy. He is leaning over some complicated looking math, wearing a green hoodie and a light blue t-shirt. He has a wrist watch that matches the shirt exactly. I wonder if this was on purpose. He has a red and black beanie on with a few stray red curls peeking out from the front. Next to him is a laptop, some coffee and a folder. This folder is the culprit of our tale,a sneaky preaching paper holder. It is decorated with a busy star pattern, blue whites and browns. It is a pretty pattern, very modern, very back to school. It also is trying to spread the good word. Only marginally hidden amongst the stars is a cross. Not just a cross, but an unused crucifix, solidly planted on what I can only imagine to be the hill of Golgotha. Next to this grisly new testament scene are the words, "'I am the way, the truth, and the Life,' Jesus." When one of his friends comments,"I didn't know you were religious Will." The guy, Will apparently,

I'm next to this mad scientist. Well, I am unsure as to his actual job, but I feel like his professional paths are extremely limited by his appearance. His hair has receded about halfway across his scalp. In response the rest of his hair is shaggy and has decided to grow straight out in every direction. I believe the technical term for this is a shock of hair. Oh yeah its white, not dirty yellow white, or sprinkled with grey, but brilliant I just talked with a deity in a burning bush white. His eyebrows follow a similar pattern of madness, giant white things that dominate his lengthy forehead. The rest of his face is a mass of bemused wrinkles with a giant nose thrusting out of them. He has on green corduroy pants, a wrinkly striped shirt, and a vest with a million pockets. No doubt filled with hand held lasers, unfolding robots, and enough the unstable Element X to destroy entire block. He is reading the paper. I can only imagine he is scanning the pages for news of his

I'm next to these old ladies. A whole flock of them. They are fluttering in the thrift store line, surrounding me in a whirl of short choppy haircuts and full shopping carts. Two of them shoo me ahead in line since I only have one item. I try to resist, but they insist. I make a show of breaking down, and use the free pass to cut in front. Honestly, I don't really want to wait behind them, I mispoke when I said they all have full carts, in truth they are overflowing, exploding with what can only be called old lady stuff. The two still in front of me have wicker baskets, fake flowers and bright knit sweaters. One behind me has a massive amount of stuffed animals stuffed into her cart. The other has a few vases, a clear rain coat, and a couple of, no joke, bags of hard candy. It's a fucking thrift store, where did those even come from? I still have to wait for the first two, so I am sandwiched between them for a little bit. This usually would be a problem, lucky fo

I'm next to this guy. He is fidgety. He has greasy brown hair, and a patchy beard. He is wearing a blue shirt, and khaki cargo pants. We are both in line at the bank. He keeps leaning on one foot, and then the other. Almost hopping back and forth. He is holding his wallet in his hand, his fingers keep rubbing it. He is a fly person, a grubby creepy fly person. He is staring at me. Well, he keeps staring at me then looking away. Under the cover of his limp shaggy hair his eyes keep finding their way back to me. A few times our eyes meet, and his mouth starts to say something. He stops though, thankfully. This happens three times. I know what is happening, he thinks he knows me but is not sure. Sure, there is a chance I have met Fly Man before, but even if I have I certainly don't want to talk to him, that sounds terrible. I don't want to talk to normal not insect people, but he keeps looking at me. Then he does it, he says hello. I nod and look at my deposit sl

I'm next to these people. There is a guy over there, a girl over there, a different there, and yet another girl in yet another there. They are all sitting at their computers, working. They are dressed like regular people, they have regular people faces, they seem regular. They might be hiding all sorts of weird things, like huge stamp collections, or birth marks shaped like their zodiac sign. One of them might have been a twin who killed his twin in the womb. That girl might have had a vestigial tail removed at birth, I can't tell she is sitting down, and I don't have a copy of her medical records in front of me. Sadly, none of them are showing off their probable weirdnesses. I guess thats okay. I know they are there. Hiding. Waiting. Collecting stamps. I mean like a huge stamp collection.

I'm next to this girl. She has straight blond hair, and a leather jacket on. The jacket is one of those jackets that looked cool on someone somewhere. This girl must have seen that someone somewhere and thought, 'I would like to look as cool as this person, I'll get that jacket too.' Her plan is not working. I guess that's mean, but I claim a bit of meanness because she is creeping me out. She is a stranger to me, and that means I am a stranger to her. This anonymity hasn't impacted our personal geographies as much as I think it should. She is touching me. Not in some offhanded friendly manner, but in this bizarre constant manner. She has placed one hand on the back of my shoulder, and one hand on the front of my shoulder and is rubbing me in quick short strokes. Really quick, like creating heat the from friction quick. Why is she doing this? Is it a seduction? If so, her plan is not working. Is she trying to erode me? If so, her plan may be workin

I'm next to this guy. He has a baggy grey sweatshirt on, with a brightly colored t-shirt peeking out from the collar. It draws the eye to his neck, but once your eye is there you realize there isn't anything else to see. So I'm disappointed as I take in the rest of him. Which may be why I find this guy so unimpressive. Of course it may just be him being unimpressive. He has goatee, which does a poor job of masking a weak chin, a large reddish nose, and these squinted eyes that look like they are tearing up. He is sitting behind the counter at the gas station. In front of him is a box of brownies. These brownies are strange things, a bizarre point of advertisement. They are labeled 'Relaxation Brownies,' and their slogan makes the claim, 'The only brownies specifically designed to calm you down.' The logo is a brownie with arms and legs lounging on a green divan. I suppose this green square where we find the brownie is laying on might be any other fo

I'm next to these two people. One is has a green t-shirt on and is slumped into a chair, with a very smug expression on. This is the right one. The other has a white t-shirt on, and is sitting on the edge of the seat, with a frustrated look on. This is the wrong one. They are playing Trivial Pursuit. You can probably guess who is winning. "Uh glycerin?," the wrong one says. "You are wrong," the right one says. They aren't playing Trivia by the rules. I get the feeling they played a very brief, very predictable game. Now they are just reading the cards to each other. I feel like more people probably play Trivial Pursuit like this. I would be unsurprised to see a lot of people surprised that there is a connection between pie and Trivia. I have always wanted to play with real pie pieces, the winner gets a full pie, the losers get half a pie. Everyone wins. "Spiro Agnew," the right one says. "You are right," the wrong one says. I w

I'm next to this guy. He has on a green sweater with thin yellow and blue horizontal stripes. Under this he has a light blue collared shirt. He has jeans and red chucks on. He is starting at his computer screen, and typing, typing, typing. Trailing from his laptop to his ears are small white headphones. He would have you believe he is using them to listen to music, but he isn't. He is using them to lie to everyone here. I have been watching him. He bobs his head in time to the music playing over the speakers. He chuckles at the jokes people tell at the table next to him. He picks up his phone when it lightly rings. I have my suspicions that in fact, there is nothing playing in his head phones. So I make the excuse to get up and plug my computer in near him. I excuse myself and lean over towards the plug, and fiddle with it for a second. I keep my head near his. Just as I thought, nothing coming from those headphones. I am a much better spy than him.

I'm next to a cool dude. A very cool dude. He is wearing all black,and almost all leather. Black leather chaps, black leather, black leather vest. He has a black T-shirt, black jeans and a black bandanna. He is riding a motorcycle, and, predictably, it is black. Now, this happens all the time, I see people dressing in all this stuff and looking awkward, stiff, out of place in any place. They are wearing costumes. This is the guy they are dressing up as. Comfortable, durable, tough, this is a cool dude, almost fictionally cool. We are at a gas station, there is a woman next to me at the pump. The cool guy is looking at her. She is pumping her gas and seems mildly uncomfortable under his cool gaze, but not unhappy. She smiles a small smile where he can't see. I bet he knows though. She gets in her car, but before she drives away he causally walks up. Cool footsteps. He waves briefly and leans on her passenger side door. She rolls the window down, no hesitation. He

I'm next to a swordsman. We are riding in and elevator together. Me and a swordsman in and elevator! This is, in case you are wondering, as awesome as it sounds, maybe even more awesome. He is somewhere just toping five feet, and is widely built with a little bit of chub. He is bald, and has a close cropped beard. Even with out his sword, he is dressed ridiculously. He has on a red fuzzy hoodie, not fleece, fuzz. His pants match. His pants match. His pants match. Match his red, fuzzy hoodie, they are red fuzzy pants. His shoes are bright white leather, and are extremely clean, probably new. He is wearing those future sunglasses you get when you have your eyes dilated, and he looks happy to have them on. This is all wonderful. The sword strapped to his back makes it more wonderful than I ever could have hoped for. The hilt is wrapped in white tape, and it is in a black nylon sheath. Without the sword he looks like a homeless man who skinned many Elmos for his outfi

I'm next to this pile of hair. It is brown, and maybe two inches long at most. I get the feeling it was boys hair, but as it is unattached to anybody I don't know for sure. It is laying in the dirt, under a bush, next to somebodies porch. It looks kind of sad. I can see it now, a young man nervously letting his friend nervously shear him. He is wrapped in a bath towel or a sheet, and chuckling at jokes about how bad his haircut is going to turn out. He has an itch on his nose and has to keep telling his friend to hold on while he scratches it. I mean thats how it could have happened, I dunno. I wonder if the person misses it? I wonder if hey like their new hair cut? I wonder if they are still getting used to it? I wonder if was a trim, or a major shave? I wonder if it was conditioned regularly I wonder if he rinsed and repeated? I wonder if I could tell by touching the hair? I wonder if I could tell by smelling it? I wonder if I know the person? I wonder if I complimented the

I'm next to the whole god damn army. This is an exaggeration, but only a little one. I'm next to what can only be called a convoy. Seven army vehicles in a row traveling down the highway, complete with camouflage and troopers. The troopers are wearing full get up, heavy desert camouflage jackets, helmets, the passengers are holding guns, and all have grim, super down to business, army dude expressions. The three cars in the front and back are jeeps, the one in the middle is a covered truck. What is in that truck? Why is it being guarded by three carloads of armed soldiers? Is it a thing, is it a person, is it both? Is there significance to the seven vehicles, perhaps its some bizarre occult experiment by a mad Pentagon scientist sorcerer? I hope it's not that they are just learning to drive jeeps.

I'm next to this ripped dude. Ripped is a silly word, but thats what this dude is, every inch of him is at least ten times more firm than any inch of me. I suppose I haven't felt him to be sure, but with his tiny shorts and sleeveless and side-less shirt I certain can see enough of him. This shirt is ridiculous. Once upon a time it was a regular t-shirt, it had sleeves, a neck line, all that shirty stuff. But then this guy decided that he needed more airflow. So he dipped it in raw meat and and tossed it to a group of starving bears. Now it is slit down to the bottom hem on each side, and has a low ragged v-neck. It might be a tabard, technically, maybe he is a knight. I dunno. Fashion choices aside, he is eating Mcdonalds. This inspires a dull resignation in me. This asshole is shoving the worst shit possible into his face, and still has a magnificent form. What worse is that, due to his excess of muscles, this dude's body literally requires more calories to mai

I'm next to this lady. She has short styled hair, a bright yellow top with poofy shoulders and no sleeves. She is frantic, her eyes are darting back and forth, searching desperately. In the brief span me eating from inch two to inch three of my burrito, she has walked by my table 8 times. She must be lost? Or there is a bomb here somewhere. A table down there is a kid playing with some sort of modern version of silly putty. He is pretty happy. Which is fair, that stuff looks cool. He is alone, i saw his mother go to use the restroom. Suddenly halting her pacing, the frantic woman slams her hand down on his table, and in a tense, loud voice she says, "Hey, is this Chipolte?" There should probably be an exclamation point in that last sentence. The kid looks around at all the signs that read Chipolte, all the soda pop cups that read Chipolte, all the bags, wrapper and burritos that read Chipolte. He looks at all the distinctive latin themed industrial furnishings,

I'm next to this couple. One is a balding dude with heavy black frames, one is auburn haired lady who has heavy red frames. The woman has on jeans and a plain black t-shirt, the man has on jeans and a not plain black t-shirt. His shirt has a yellow moon silhouetting a skeleton, astride a similarly skeletal horse, and red lettering reading 'Blue Oyster Cult'. Uncharacteristically, and unthoughtfully, I break my usual and advisable silence and mutter, "Nice shirt, man." He responds, and continues responding, this is not what I intended. The small talk is like a tiny hole in my space suit of voyeurism. A tiny near unnoticeable thing that inevitably means my eyeballs will be exploding into the void of space. I am pondering this terrible eventuality and I must have missed something important because this happens sooner than I expect. Much much sooner. "Anything that sexualizes young girls is just over the line," the man is saying. The woman is nodding

I'm next to this woman. She has that yellow white hair that some old people have, and it is done up in swirls and loops. It is like highly styled cotton candy on a wrinkly head. She has pink rectangle frames glasses, a t-shirt, jeans, and pink flip flops on. She also has cats. Seven of them. These cat's aren't with her, well physically, they are always with her in spirit, I think. She has left their side to buy them food at the pet store, I'm behind her in line, forever. This forever has been created by a kind, if unthoughtful cashier. The cashier asked the woman the following question, "Wow seven cats, whats that like?" This began an unstoppable torrent of stories about the only things that matter in this womans life, seven furry demons of sloth and gluttony. Every story starts and ends with these cats laying around cutely. In between dscriptions about their idle lounging, we learn how many birds they murder a year (five), or how many of them were c

I'm next to the sleazy guy. His hair is gelled to the point that is is more of an architectural work than a part of a human. Stiff and straw-like, it forms a snaky twisting faux hawk. He has a scruffy beard and a fat face, with beady little eyes. He is terrible below his neck too. His chubby upper torso is covered by too tight blazer, over a similarly tight shirt. His limbs are these strange thin things sprouting from his round frame, like a grapefruit with toothpicks sticking out of it. All of this might be fun looking, or cute in a strange asexual way, if he wasn't rubbing my inside of my wrist with his pointer finger while we shake hands. I should have known it was going to be a creepy handshake. His eyes were glazed over, and making weird convulsive winks, which may have been part of a localized seizure, or an attempt at a come hither look. Hit tiny tongue kept peeking out of his mouth, which for all the world reminded me of a national geographic video of a moray ee

I'm next to this dude. He is relatively ancient. Not like walking corpse old, but still pretty musty. He has a long black coat on, it is worn and faded, and his shoes have seen light years. Despite the obvious age of his clothing it is well cared for, shoes shiny, coat clean. He has a cane, brass and functional, but obviously from a medical supply store. He used to be imposing. He was large. Tall, muscular, you can tell from how he has collapsed on himself with age. He has jowls now, and his neck is no longer thick, his shoulders are no longer broad. Time has made him scrawny, and left his skin hanging off him where it used to be taut and vital. He is stooped, leaning over his cane he loses whole feet. He is still taller than me. His hair is dyed. It's not even dyed well. Its this matte fake black. His roots stand out for at least an inch, and there are faded parts that look lighter. I don't begrudge him dying his hair, I just wonder if he thinks he is being

I'm next to this old woman. She is bundled disproportionately again the mild cold. Giant coat, fuzzy scarf and a shawl under the scarf and pulled up over her head. She has a big, bulging full purse that she is holding in in the crook of her left arm. Her left hand is white and shaky. Also it is brushing the small of my back. We are crammed in a tightly packed space, and I am realizing that the back of my shirt has ridden up just the slightest bit to expose the skin just above my ass. Her hand has found that small patch of skin. I was just standing there when I felt it. Like the touch of a lover, gentle but most definitely there. If it wasn't so jarring it would feel good, I think? I can't see her now, but since she is still doing it I think she doesn't seem to notice she is touching me. Maybe the bag has cut off the circulation in her hand. I'm frozen though, because if this old lady doesn't realize she is nearly giving me an erection, and I feel like if I

I'm not next to anyone. This will change soon.

I'm next to this gentleman. He has grey hair and a slouch. He is wearing a blue T, and cargo shorts. His grey socks are pulled high out of his white tennis shoes. His features are soft and rounded. He puts the gentle in gentleman. He looks very very nice. He is also directly in front of my car. Well like 45 feet in front of my car. So, you know, its not that dramatic. He does decide however that he doesn't want to cross the street. This is really sad thing for the Gentleman apparently. He is so downcast as he turns around and walks back to the sidewalk. He really looks like he is going to cry. I've never felt so bad for driving straight.

I'm next to these two guys. One is kinda chubby, with tangled hair and the hint of a future beard. He has blue mesh shorts on and a sweat drenched T-shirt. He is out of breathe. The other guy is fit, thin and lanky, with close cropped hair and is cleanly shaved. He has a tight shirt on, and fitted mesh shorts. He is sweating lightly, and breathing regularly. It looks like they planned how ridiculous they look next to each other. It is like a Laurel and Hardy jogging team. The chubby guy is bent over heaving now, while his buddy offers bland, but encouraging words, while jogging in place to keep up his heart rate. There is a flash of hatred across the already twisted features of the chubby guy. I can tell that, just for a moment, he wants to plunge his hands into the thin guy's chest, pull out his heart, and scream wildly some clever phrase that has the word 'cardiovascular' in it. Much to my dismay he doesn't coat his hands in the life blood of his exerc

I'm next to these four dudes. They all are wearing mesh shorts and T-shirts, three of the four have caps on, two of the four have flip flops. They are my new neighbors and they are enjoying the weather by sitting on their porch and talking about girls. Despite their ridiculous notions of women, this set up is not inherently a problem. When it happens at 4:30 am then we have a problem. Currently we have a problem. They are loud, so loud. They are stupid, so stupid. As they talk about girls they do this strange dance. It starts off with a mention, "Hey hows Jane doing?" In a four man chorus they give some safe small talk about Jane. Then they lightly touch on Jane's character. Invariably these are compliments, "She is a really cool girl," and so on and so forth. This rapidly shifts to a different sort of compliment, "She has a BODY, I mean a body." So now that we know Jane isn't a discorporate entity wandering the world without form o

I'm next to people, I think. I'm walking down the street, past a bus parked at a stop, and with the way the sun is shining the windows have been turned into mirrors. I feel nervous. Anyone could be in that bus watching me. Anyone. This is an unacceptable reversal of roles. That's my shtick, phantom bus people. I spy on people and think they are weird. Do you have a blog that two of your friends read, when you not so casually fish for their patronage. No, you don't do you. So stop making fun of my stupid hair cut, or the fact that my shirt is extra wrinkly today, or whatever. Dicks. It is possible no one was looking at me as I walked by.

I'm next to this guy. He is short, round, and shaggy headed. Hair beard all of it. He has a white polo on with small yellowed spots, similarly stained khaki shorts and flip flops. In order to keep his flip flops on he feet he take tiny little bird steps. As he walks around this bar I hear snippets of him talking. He is making a silly voice, strange, squeaky and soft. Wait, that is actually his voice. Its this hideous watery squeak screech like if a rodent and a bird were to make love in the middle of the ocean. It is astonishing to think he sounds like this all the time. It must be a strange existence when your main form of communication is this unfortunate warbling sound. Oh my, now the most amazing thing ever is happening, he is getting up to sing karaoke. Oh. Oh. It is beautiful. It is so goddamn beautiful. Hearing him sing is like being hugged by my mother. I don't even know what to say. I'm just going to stop writing.

I'm next to a man. A man. He has a red polo and new jeans, with that capital B unfaded blue, and a big silver watch. His eyebrow are constantly fluctuating between furrowed and arched. He looks just like Craig T. Nelson. Star of screens big and small. I hope its him. It would be so wonderful if it was him. It has to be him. It totally is him Maybe he is prepping for the Coach movie, I hope so. I'd love a Coach movie, maybe Jerry Van Dyke would be in it. I mean he would have to be, if he is still alive guess. It would be a dream come true to see those two back in action. I'm gonna play it cool though I'm not gonna ask for an autograph. I just checked Jerry Van Dyke is alive.

I'm next to this guy. He has short light brown, maybe dark blond hair and a scruffy beard. He has a fitted grey t shirt on, and seems in fairly good shape. Lean and fit shape, not unwieldy bulbous shape. Also I can't tell from my current spying angle but it looks like has an orange tattoo on his left tricep. He has his computer open, but isn't paying attention to it. Not one bit, his attention lies elsewhere. Elsewhere is his phone, and although I am too far away to hear his actual words, as much as my voyeuristic creepy heart wants to, I can hear his tone. It is that soft edged, lightly musical, sanded down voice that boys have when they are talking to girls on the phone. Any boy, any girl, same voice. I am next to someone else who is as spy-y as I am. So I lean over and mention this phenomena. She giggles and we both look over at the talking gentleman. But while we look, we are spotted! This is not a disaster however, it proves my theory. He blushes. A lot. Its

I'm next to a couple. She has long auburn hair and a grey ladies fedora, two nose rings in one nostril, a pair large hoop earing, and a few other piercings but rather than having jewelry in them she has thread threaded through them. The gentle man has a deep purple shirt, mussed thick brown hair, a goatee, and a bitchin watch. They are getting married, and they are unenthusiastic about it. I should note they are excited about each other, but its the wedding that seems to be the problem. There is all sorts of unimposing talk about commas on their program, and file types for the music, but these tiny seemingly mundane items are mystically augmented by the weight of terrible stress. So instead of grammar and file naming convention it sounds like they are talking about tsunamis and gang violence. They make jokes with a soldiers humor, and answer those jokes with sincere but mildly crazy laughter. This celebration has unhinged them. Its like a drug addiction, something that is

I'm next to a lot of people today. They are all playing board games, me too. I love this. The end.

I'm next to a total dude. He is walking down the street, with his girl, who, in an amazing triumph over gender roles, is a total dude too. They are red, bright red, like everyone else around them. It is game day here in OSU town, which for me isn't that bad. I'm not a fan, but I like to pretend there are just weekly fairs, where vendors sell sell T-shirts, and necklaces made of buckeyes, instead of cotton candy, and deep fried everything. This dude couple is walking by one of the said buckeye necklace vendors. The vendor halts them for a second, and hands the girl dude, dudette I suppose, a buckeye bracelet, "For you baby," he says. This turns out to be a brilliant sales move, as the couple stops to buy some more festive jewelry. The dude says, "Hey do you have any that are just buckeye colors without these big brown things?" The vendor is confused, "What?" The dude, "These big ugly brown things." The vendor, "Those are buc

I'm next to this kid. He has a red t-shirt on and mesh blue shorts. He has an mac laptop in front of him, but it is closed and he is playing handheld video game. He is slouched in that way that kids slouch. He is chubby in that way that children are chubby. He is a pretty normal kid. But he is alone, there are no other kids here, just a whole bunch of adults. None of them seem to be his parents, or if they are they are so caught up in everything else that they may as well not be. Maybe he is lost? Maybe he is divorced from his parents? Maybe he is a test tube baby? Maybe he is a super genius child raised in a government laboratory and this is his escape? Maybe he is a bizarre alien parasite using this child as a host and the video game is actually a control for a doomsday device that spells the end of human kind as we know it. Oh wait there is his mom, she was knitting in the corner.

The people I'm next to are in a grey minivan. I was riding my bike uphill, not a steep hill, but long and constant. At least that's what I say to make myself feel better about feeling winded while riding up it. Just as I was reaching the top, the grey minivan zoomed past me, and in the brief moment when we were next to each other I heard a fleeting yell. The yell contained the words; bike, you and stupid. Those were the few I could hear, and they were enough to enrage my oxygen starved frame. I am rarely able to use the word incensed, so I am excited about this next short sentence. I was incensed. Now I was going downhill and they were coming up on a red light, so I was excited to catch up to them and give them a harsh glare, or maybe even an impolite hand gesture. But the treacherous light turned green right as they were arriving. But, now I have purpose, and more importantly momentum, so the chase continues. I think damning thoughts about the combustion engine, and

I'm next to a nerdy couple. Really nerdy. They both are obscenely thin, they both have loose over sized clothes and they both have long shoulder length hair. One has wildly large ears, one has a wildly small nose, they are both precious. They are both working on academic things. Big Ears is writing some sort of history paper. I can't tell what level of education he is pursuing, but it seems likely it is post graduate. He has his finger idly tracing the exaggerated outline of his lobes, when he asks, " Do you think the word Constaninopalization is a reasonable word." "That's not a word," Small Nose replies. "But, should it be?," Big Ears counters. "Oh, is it the process of turning something into Constantinople?," Small Nose asks, Big Ears nods. "Then yes. It should be a word." I also nodded, but they weren't looking.

I'm next to a guy named Cherokee. He is just past four feet tall with buzzed hair that is the same length as his patchy beard. That same hair has receded about halfway back. He is wearing all black: black polo, black capris, black flip flops, black heavy rimmed plastic glasses. Two parts of his clothing jump out. A white eagle on emblazoned on the right breast of his polo, swooping down, I believe the term is stooping. He also has a golden chain, with a gold dog tag. Which ironically enough is blank. I know his name because he just introduced himself to me. We are in a bar and it is loud, and I had to ask him to repeat his ridiculous name. He did, and followed up with this phrase, "Oh I'm a junior, its not a black thing." I wasn't aware, and still am not aware how the name Cherokee is a black thing, also what is a junior? My confusions must have shown on my face, because he suddenly looked worried he had offended me. He grabbed my elbow, gently, and said

I'm next to this dude. He has a black polo, and khaki cargo shorts. He wears it like a uniform, I feel like his closet is a cartoon closet, full of the same outfit. I can't tell you why its just the first thing that popped into my mind. But really I'm reaching, this guy doesn't really look all that interesting. What is interesting is where he is. We are on a corner waiting to cross the street, he is next to me. He wasn't a second ago though. A second ago I was next to my sister having a conversation, waiting for the light to change. There was a brief pause and I looked away for just a second, just a second, and when I looked back she was gone. Replaced by this dude. I looked at him startled, and he looked back at me with knowing eyes. I was transfixed. I was transported to the clever girl scene of Jurassic Park, but when another version of him didn't leap through foliage to pounce on me, I came out of it. Then I saw my sister over his shoulder with a

I'm next to this dude. He has on a polo shirt with brown and blue horizontal stripes, khakis and flip flops. He has this terrible lumpy slouch and has dull animal eyes. He is so still, not a hint of movement, like a lizard sun bathing. The only thing that moves are his fingers on his keyboard, and his mouth. His mouth is framed by thin lips, and his voice has a slight, purposeful sounding lisp, but with a low throatiness that doesn't match with the affectation. He ends up sounding dull, and a little creepy. He is using the voice too, constantly. At first he was just making unintelligible moaning noises, but eventualy he graduated into single words, then sentences. But he isn't talking to anyone, he is just staring into space announcing things. They are strange random things, I have recorded them for posterity. They are as follows: "Ewwwww." "Uhhhhooohhhunnn."* "Woooah." "Noooo."* "Thats really close to the amaerican fol

I'm next to these two girls One has a teal top and jeans on, and has her hair held back with a wide tie dye, and is quiet. The other has a ribbed grey tank and jean shorts on, and is more talkative. The chatty one has tattoos kind of sprinkled on her right shoulder at random, they don't seem to have anything in common other than the fact that they are tattoos. It is oddly uncoordinated, i'm not sure how I feel about it. I was all set to spy on them, when they did something terrible. They talked to me. This ruins everything. Everything. Oh its horrendous, they are polite and seem nice and interesting. Its all hideously engaging, sigh.

I'm next to nobody. I'm in a coffee shop, sipping coffee, alone. Even the counter person has wandered off to do non counter things. It is so seldom that I am alone in a public place. It feels strange. I am having some sort of weird daydream that maybe something terribly important and world affecting is happening and I am missing it. This is conceivable, because I get all of my news updates by eavesdropping on other people talking about news updates. The world could be exploding in conflict and fire and I would be totally unaware. Whats worse is I have no one to write about. I feel like I shouldn't be here, like I'm breaking a rule, trespassing. I'm in the blue area without the blue key card. I could start doing wild things with no repercussions, of course stealing cookies is the most likely thing that comes to mind. But when I am alone, I am much more convinced of cameras watching my every move, than is at all reasonable. Plus I'd wind up feeling bad,

I'm next to this gentleman. He has kind eyes, although they are kind of leering too. He is bigger, round, not boxy, and is wearing a red polo, and khaki cargo shorts. He is black, and apparently disappointed that I am white. We briefly chatted, and when we finished he offered me the rock. I tapped his rock, with my rock, and as is almost second nature to me, I caused my rock to explode. Fingers wide, all and all about a 6 to 8 inch blast radius. Kind Eyes is not pleased. He shakes his head, and re offers the rock. He looks deep into my soul and says, "This time don't be white about it." I didn't explode it the second time.

I'm next to this girl. Her hair stops just above her shoulder, and she has a golden hoop in her nose. She is wearing a black and white striped tank, and she is on the phone. She must be a regular here because there are three of four people around her at different tables unabashedly listening in on her phone call. It makes my eavesdropping all the easier. She just touches on this wonderful story before she hangs up, but sadly I can't only creepily listen in on half of it. This is the big problem with coffee shop phone call voyeurism, it can be very tantalizing, yet ultimately unfulfilling. So I am overjoyed when a guy a couple tables away says, "Ok, you need to tell us about that." She puked on some dude. At a bar. From a balcony. Right when he walked out a door! This is perfect. This is so perfect. I bet the guy who she puked on was some tragic hero of a romantic comedy right at the end of his rope. His girl left him, his job is terrible right now, he probab

I'm next to this older gentleman. He has a beard, and slicked back hair. Both of these things are grey, and oily looking. He is thin, but his skin is hanging slackly, like he used to be fat until recently, like yesterday maybe. Anyway he is talking to me, and he is frustrated, mainly because I don't know enough about screws. Which is the whole reason I'm talking to him. He is an employee in a hardware store, I am a customer in a hardware store. I asked him for help matching screws and he just stared at me. To this guys thinking apparently only children and women should ask for help in a hardware store. This is bullshit, especially in this aisle. This god damn screw aisle. I have a sinking suspicion that Eli Whitney is a myth. Mainly because every time I have to replace a screw, it is always impossible to find a replacement. Every screw that was ever made is in between proper screw sizes. So finding a replacement screw is this nerve racking affair. I try the size g

I'm next to this guy. He has a shirt that a little to tight, and baggy pants. Curly hair and a real ugly beard. It's one of those beards that doesn't hide a weak chin, but emphasizes it. It should be made apparent I find this person distressing to look at. But maybe that's because I know he is an insane prick. How do I know this? Gossip. Beautiful, dependable, wonderful gossip. Basically a few folks told me wild stories about this guy. I can't relate them, but suffice it to say they were terrible. They were the type of stories that make you upset with the whole world. Stories that make you depressed that someone like this can continue to breathe with out an alarm going off that screams shithead where ever he goes. But here he is, and there is no alarm. Maybe this gossip is why I find this guy so wretched to look at, maybe just knowing that he is so horrible makes him horrible to behold. Maybe this means I'm not shallow, and my aesthetics are driven by

I'm next to this grey haired dude. He looks to be in his forties and he has jean shorts and sandals on, and a black T-shirt. The shirt has a stick figure on it, and the sentence, 'I think it's funny how you think I'm listening.' Did he buy this shirt for himself? Did he come across it in a store and say, hey that is totally the right amount of snark for my chest. I just have to have this T-shirt. Out of all the other clever one liner T-shirts that are doubtlessly on the same rack, this is the one for me. I'm definitely going to love rocking this hot number. Or was it a present. Dave will love this, he hates it when people talk to him. Yeah this describes Dave perfectly, he is a real dick. I don't know, I see these shirts a lot. I often wonder about this bizarre t-shirt applause of rudeness. How come there are never nice shirts. I appreciate you, or You're swell, or If you are reading this then you are literate, and that's great! I've neve

I'm next to this girl, I did not see her at first. We are out behind a bar, it is me, her, and a group of my friends. She must have been skulking in the shadows behind the bar, waiting patiently. I think this is the first person I've ever seen skulking, although I guess your not supposed to see someone who is skulking, so maybe this makes sense. Regardless she surprised me when I saw her in a darkened corner. She is wearing a tank top and a short skirt. She has dark hair pulled into a pony tail, and is extraordinarily skinny. She is clutching an envelope to her chest. She is all these things, as well entirely obliterated by whatever cocktail of drugs and liquor that is replacing a significant portion of her blood. She staggers up to us and says, "Im outta work." She says more things but they all come out, " Blarasrradsajfgh." Then she laughs hysterically. In case it is not apparent I will clarify: this is weird, but also intriguing. My group immedia

I'm next to this guy. He is a good looking dude. Short, short hair, athletic figure, nice smile. He is dressed nice too. Not in formal wear, but just well fitted, well cared for clothes. We are both at a show listening to a band that I've never heard before, he doesn't seem very familiar with them either. The music cuts out for second, and the guy next to me thinking the song is over starts clapping. For second it is silent except for this guys slow, now hesitant applause. Then the song bursts out again. It was just a brief lull, a few people are turning around to look at the clapper. He reacts instantly, pretending he was just stretching his hands out. Good reaction time, but I don't know if anyone was fooled. Honestly, I was just about to clap too.

I'm next to this guy. We are at a red light. He is mid twenties, has brown curly hair and a black t-shirt. He has a soul patch. It is one of those long thick pieces of facial hair, so that even though it is growing from a small part of his face, it seems to be huge. He has big ears too. His car is the result of careless driving. Dents and dings everywhere. There are different colors of paint left on his car from the various accidents. So you can assume that he has ran into many cars, not just one strange accident. He must have some skill at operating a vehicle because his car is still running after running into dozens of other cars. He has his windows down, and he is playing Radiohead's Fake Plastic Trees, very, very loud. Loud enough I can hear the words exactly. I'm at least a little bit of a fan so I am enjoying it, but not like this guy is enjoying it. He isn't singing along or dancing in his seat. Instead he is agreeing with the song, nodding at the e

I'm next to these two people. They are fighting, kind of. They are both sitting with a few other people, all of which seem to be friends. Except of course these two. It is an otherwise civil group, but these two keep insulting each other. One of the guys is a jerk, or at least is aggressively jerky, Jerk Major. The other guy is on the defensive, but he still seems to be pretty damn jerky, Jerk Minor. Jerk Major is clearly annoyed that Jerk Minor is sitting at the same table as them. So Major is trying out tactics he probably perfected in third grade. He is a bully, a big jerky bully. Every time Jerk Minor has something to say Jerk Major is ready and immediately demeans Jerk Minor. On the plus side he seems pretty good at it, a funny jerk. In the other corner is Jerk Minor. Who seems really annoying. Annoying voice, annoying opinions, annoying face. Plus in his own less effective way, he is taking part in this verbal sparring. Little passive aggressive snipes followed by t

I'm next to a man and a woman. They both have a T-shirts, and shorts on. I'm not sure how old they are, maybe late thirties. They are sitting on a public bench, and each other. It is maybe 2 pm, and the gentleman has one of his hands on a upper private part, and his other hand on a lower private part. Now she has one over her legs draped over his knee, which better displays that lower private part. They are slowing traffic with only their passion. I'm in my car next to them, and have spent the last few minutes wondering why it was taking me so long to get down this side street. They seem to be very involved in what they are doing, and unconscious of line of cars that are enjoying them enjoying themselves. It is actually kind of gross.

I'm next to this kid. He is teenage thin, with blue mesh shorts, a marines t-shirt, and a buzzed head. Due to the fact that apparently I'm ancient nowadays, I find this youth immediately suspect. He has this smug arrogant look. I feel like is because he is statistically likely to die decades after I do, and thus will have a much greater chance for hover board rides, and getting a robot arm. But, to be honest it could be about the hickey on his neck. Anyway hickey or lifeline, the sheer fact that I dislike this kid from a chronological standpoint is soon bolstered out by the fact that the first word I hear him say is, 'bitch'. What a hooligan. I know this kid is up to no good. Swearing, and being younger than me, thats two strikes kid, and you know what? I'm giving you a third, cause I damn well want to. So three strikes, now I'm on the case. I sidle up and eavesdrop on a conversation he is having with yet another youth. The first thing, and only thing, I

I'm next to this dude. I want to be fair, but I'm not going to be, this guys is a redneck. He has facial hair, terrible terrible facial hair, patchy and disreputable it matches his clothing. He is wearing an A-tee, commonly known as a wife beater. If this isn't a description of his love life yet, it soon will be. So other than being a redneck in my general area, what is odd about this guy? He is drinking tea, Peach Passion to be exact.

I'm next to this girl. We are in a dark bar, so I can't tell much about her except she has hair down to her chin, and she is maybe about shoulder height on me. There is a gentleman on the other side of the bar gesturing to her. When she sees him she hurriedly brushes past me, but as she does she spills her drink. The drink hops out of her glass and splashes into her face, then bounces and drips back into her glass. Here is what I do, I laugh. I laugh a lot. I laugh with fits and convulsions. The now embarrassed girl pushes past the asshole guffawing at her, me. But she doesn't count on my flailing arms. I strike her. I strike her in the back of the head. This causes her to spill her drink back into her face. Which causes me to laugh more. I try to sputter out an apology, and offer her a new drink. But it most comes out as barely repressed chuckles. I feel bad now, I'm sorry girl.

I'm next to the woman. She has a black sleeveless dress on, with matching black sandals. She is maybe in her mid to late thirties, and at first seemed unremarkable. She has been sitting near me for a few hours, and I didn't really take notice of her, except when I have paused to think, and gaze off into space. Space in this case is coincidentally the back of her head. It's a fairly normal back of a head. Dark long brown hair, slightly graying, and done into a few thick braids. Whats concerning me is that these braids are driving me insane. Her hair is made into four braids. Their is a big center braid running down the middle, and on the right side their are two thin braids, and the left there is one similarly sized braid. This asymmetry doesn't present a problem to me at first, but over the course of the day I keep searching for the fifth braid. I'll be staring at her hair, thinking of something else, and not really looking at it. When suddenly it just feel

I'm next to this guy. His hair is slightly receded but, is making up for its loss by being shoulder length. It curls out slightly at the bottom, which makes me smile. His nose isn't big, but it does dominate his face. At least that is how he looks from the side, and frankly I refuse to look at this guy in anything but profile. I see him almost every day, when thumbing through my change. The person I'm next to is Thomas Jefferson. I mean probably not really, and if he is the long dead statesman, inventor, and architect known as Thomas Jefferson, then he is a really drunk creepy version. You know the version that made his slaves sleep with him. I'm in a good mood, so I lean over and tell him, 'Hey buddy, you look like our third president.' This wounds him. He gives me sad eyes, and I feel terrible, this is not the reaction I expected. He kind of grunts and walks away. But, I quickly stop feeling bad and get indignant. Who wouldn't want to look like the i

I'm next to this guy. He is thin, super thin. He has long stringy hair, which is matched by a long stringy goatee. His nose is impressively big. He has a burrito on a plate in front of him, it is only about half done, but from the way he is poking at it with his fork I think he is all done. From what I can gather he is regaling his table with his high opinions on the 90's scifi movie Dark City. It is a pretty nerdy speech, but I suppose I'm pretty nerdy too, because I can tell which movie he is talking about from a few eavesdropped sentences. Also I totally agree with him, Dark City rules. What's weird is that is he is squatting on his chair. Like feet square on the chair, perched. He has been sitting like this for at least an hour. Just crowing about weird movies and picking at his food and waving his wildly beak-ish nose around. Every now and then he gets animated and waves his arms around. He is so perfect.

I'm next to the people that stare at you when you parallel park. They are horrible people. These particular ones and sitting on their front porch. They are dressed in worn comfortable house clothes. It is painful to be judged by someone in sweatpants. But here we are, what woeful a impasse. I hate them. I want everyone to know that. I hate their eyes. I hate their distant voices. I hate their hands hiding the chuckles, chuckles that I also hate. Today I can't park either. I pull in and out umpteen times then I speed off looking foir a farther away spot. A spot! I will parallel park in this spot now. It will be good. I am safe from scrutiny. Safe from eyes and chuckles. Safe from sweat pants. Except, I'm not. I'm next to the people that stare at you when you parallel park. God damn it. These are different people. Maybe. I mean they have different shapes. This is an older couple walking their dog. But despite having changed their meat suits i t

I'm next to this guy with outrageous eyebrows. He is tall and thin, with long curly hair. His hair is a light brown, and is wild enough that it should be the most remarkable hair on his body. But defying the odds are his eyebrows. Unreasonably big bushy and at least three shades darker than his hair, these twin monsters hypnotically dominate something like three fifths of his face. Additionally he has a yellow shirt on, the back of which reads, 'Space is the Place'. He is ordering a small to go coffee, but when the girl hands him his drink, there is a brief exchange. I'm not near enough at this point to hear them, but I edge forward to listen in. Essentially he has asked his small amount of drink poured into a large to go cup, I arrive on the scene just in time to hear the barrista saying, 'Oh you are back for another.' Then he slips away to the creme station. This is the site of his crime. Eyebrows fills up his cup. Keep in mind though this was the larg

I'm next to this guy with an automatic caulking gun. His hair is buzzed short, and he has a scruffy beard. He has a septum piercing, and outlined tribal tattoos. We are in my parking lot, while he puts a new windshield on my car. I have come out to see how it is going, and he engages me in conversation. He is full of little verbal gems. This is how he starts: 'You dig my automatic caulking gun? Everybody does.' I can only nod. He seems to take this as an awed silence in the face of his gun. Truly though, it is pretty cool. He starts giving me advice on managing my new windshield, I thought I could just, you know, look through it. But there are a few point to clarify. There are two strips of painters tape on the top of the window, running to the roof of my car. I am instructed to keep those on for 24 hours. He looks at me with serious eyes. 'Trust me, just leave those, just trust me.' I must have looked a unimpressed with the bits of paper and glue holdi

I'm next to a gentleman. He has dark, thick hair, and heavy brow. He has tiny dark eyes, a large nose and not much of a chin. He is hunched over and squinting at a laptop, and hitting the keys with large, thick fingers. I should say he is pounding the keys on his laptop. Each halting blow makes me wince a little for his keyboard. For all keyboards really. He is strong looking, but this may not have anything to do with his frame, it may have more to do with my sense of cosmic fairness. He looks so much like a cro-magnon that if he isn't tossing cars around then it is not fair for him to look this way. Something is wrong with his computer. It has been wrong for the better part of an hour. At first he wasn't upset, just dimly amazed that his electronic miracle machine has failed him. He would make the same face if he found out the earth wasn't flat. Over the past hour he hasn't seemed to make any headway. In reality I imagine he is installing and updating d

I'm next to this silly looking dude. He has an ugly pink shirt on with a diagonal blue stripe across it. He has cargo shorts that go to just above his ankle, white crew socks and white tennis shoes. He is walking behind me, but quicker so at some point in my creepy stalking of him he moves past me. Thats when I'm see his face. My friend is with me and describes his look perfectly in on word, doofus. It is so true. He has doofus eyes, a doofus nose, doofus cheeks. This dude is a doofus. But he doesn't use words like one. "That mother fucking fuck master." I know, I know, he said fuck master, that is awesome. I just want to ram my fist through his shit bird forehead. One more time, ONE MORE TIME! And my fucking boot will jam every one of his stupid bastard teeth down his stupid bastard throat." This carries on, with enough venom that I make sure to not be seen writing down his crazy words. Best part though, doofus voice. He sounds like a cartoon don

I'm next to this dog. I overheard it's owner referring to it as an Irish setter. I also heard him referring to it as a him. It is not a him, it is an it. I won't blanket this statement over all dogs, but this one is certainly a monster, and doesn't deserve a gender. This thing reeks, like decaying meat. Its scent makes me wonder if this is really a dog zombie, a shambling decaying canine corpse that through mystical or viral means has remained animated post mortem. So you know, it smells bad. Normally I would be annoyed that this thing existed, but then give it no further thought. But it is inside, next to me, sitting. It's bullshit owner just walks it into the cafe I am sitting in. He hastily mutters something of an apology for bringing this creature inside, but begins ordering without waiting for an answer. This is an eatery! There is food here! Food I'm going to eat! This privileged son of a bitch just marched this moving pile of filth in. I can al

I'm next to this woman. She has disheveled hair escaping from a loose pony tail, and thin glasses sliding down her nose. She has a red shirt on, the front has a Labrador on it, and the back reads, 'Paws down the best beer around'. She has a backpack, and a plastic bag full of paper. Apparently she is married. The ring and engagement ring are tight on her finger, like they haven't been off in a long long time. She orders a beer, a coffee, a glass of water and a cookie. She takes her orders and sits down. She pulls some of the paper out of her plastic bag and begin reading. A few minutes later she stands up and walks back to the counter, and looks very confused, "I think I left my cookie up here." The employee behind the counter says very directly, "No you took it." The woman half heartedly snoops around the counter, looking under a newspaper, behind the take away cups. Then after a few seconds she looks over at her seat and says, "Ohh

I'm next to a man. I'm next to a marvelous chipmunk man. He is in the car next to me so I can only see his blue polo shirt and his head. He has big busy eyebrows, twinkling eyes, a tiny nose, and big wonderful cheeks. He is chatting away on his cell phone, happy and care free, and for every word he flexes and jiggles his cheeks like 3 times. They move so fast, like the wings of a humming bird, fleshy fatty little wings anyway. This makes him look so happy. It makes me want him to be happy. When he pauses to listen to the other line he makes them go up and down in deep thought. It makes me want to cry that this red light is going to end, so goddamn sad. I'm gonna stop taking notes, I dont want to waste a single moment of my time with him.

I'm next to this dude. He has a scruffy beard, unkempt hair, a loose t-shirt, low shorts made from corduroy patches, sandals, and of course a thick hemp necklace. Long story short this dude looks like a hippie. Not your revolutionary 60s hippie who changed the world with flowers love and group sex, but new nineties, parents pay the rent hippie. I have doubts about the first kind's existence anyway. I think they are just the bronzed baby shoe version of today's hippie. Regardless of the perhaps unicorn nature of true cool hippies, this guy is a mildly stinky reality. He has made his way to the counter of the shop I'm at,and is currently busy incriminating himself on drug charges. First he asks the guy behind the counter if he would like to take part in an abnormal psych science project. I've seen horror movies, and romantic comedies, the answer to this should always be no. The guy behind the counter doesn't have the same tastes in cinema as me, so he

I'm next to this woman. She may be the start of the apocalypse. She is wearing a white t-shirt under some sort of extremely unflattering dress. She has a hat pulled low, like covering her eyebrows low, and she is wearing loafers. Under the loafers are white socks pulled up to mid calf. Under the socks is sickly pallid skin. Not just pale sickly, but rainbow blotchy. Something is really off about her skin. She jitters. Brief convulsions, that look like she is extremely cold for a few seconds. She is coughing too. Deep but muffled coughs that shake her whole body. Those coughs scare me. She could be Patient Zero. Which means I could be Patient One. I don't want to be mean and move away from her, she looks like she is having a rough time. But I don't want to have tiny invaders from her cough creep into my body and liquefy my organs. Politeness versus preservation. Also she is eating a rice krispy treat the size of her head.

I'm next to this talkative gentleman. He is talking to someone else he is next to. They are not out together, this second guy, like me, just happens to be next to the first guy. The first guy has a killer mustache and is dressed in office wear. Office Stash looks like he just had a long day and is excited to tell his tale, the other guy is wearing a black cowboy type shirt and looks like he wishes he hadn't been polite enough to start listening to Office Stash in the first place. But the Cowboy Shirt is trapped. Office Stash has been here all day apparently, waiting on an absent gentleman to come and finalize a deal to purchase a motorcycle. Office Stash is upset. Cowboy Shirt is learning about this, a lot. Office Stash is waving his motorcycle title around to prove he owns a motorcycle. Cowboy Shirt nods. Office Stash is talking about the specifics of the frame. Cowboy Shirt nods. Office Stash is talking about this being the fourth time this buyer has stood him

I'm next to this guy with a white shirt. It's a plain white t, not an undershirt, but plain and white like an undershirt. He has calf length shorts that he has made from old jeans, and sneakers. He has a bit of a beard going on, and his hair is uncombed. He has been hanging out drinking for a while today. Every time he walks up to the bar for another drink he starts to chat. He chats funny. His words are fast but clear, and every now and then a grandiose word pops out. They aren't mixed in smoothly, but they are still at least mildly pleasing. It's like when you have some ready made macaroni and cheese, and the cheese product powder clumps up in weird little balls. So one second you are eating a blend of fake cheese and noodle, then suddenly it is all fake cheese, bright, clear, kind of chalky fake cheese. He says, "You don't serve Pabst, I guess you don't care about the proletariat, whatever." He has a slight condescending tone, and but

I'm next to this dude. He is in his mid 40s perhaps, and has a bright blue shirt, and a black tie. The tie is tight, but his collar is loose, so I can see some of his neck skin right next to the knot of his tie. His skin is sweaty. Not hot outside sweaty, or like a healthy I just ran a few miles sweaty, but like southern lawyer in a 50s film sweaty. Parts of him are just slick and others are dry, seemingly at random. He is typing in a sporadic fashion too. These quick frantic bursts, then periods of slow thoughtful index finger taps. His phone is ringing. Holy shit, he talks just like he sweats and types. Its like this high pitched light speed burst followed by a meandering slow low tone. He is upset about something, but I can't make out what he is saying. He hangs up, and goes back to the typing. Now the typing feels urgent, and his face is intense. What's going on? Has someone been kidnapped? Are his stocks plummeting? He is getting up! Ok, he is talking t

I'm next to this guy. He is offensively stereotypical. I won't mention which stereotype, but trust me this guy is it. He is this strange mash up of everything he is supposed to be according to bad movies and pop culture. It doesn't seem right seeing it all shoved together. It is awkward and mildly embarrassing to see. Plus he has this weird posture which brings to mind an opossum on it's hind legs, and this hideous goonish laugh. Of course , he is outgoing, chatting and gabbing at everyone who is within five feet, which makes him almost unavoidable. Basically this guy is a whirlwind of social terror. I see it in the eyes of anyone the starts to interact with, wild escapist looks. But thats not even the worst part, the real problem here is he may be nice. I can't tell. Everything about this goon fills me with loathing, but it all happened with in the first 3 seconds of his presence, so he didn't really get a fair shake. What if he is a goddamn saint under

I'm next to an older gentleman. He has ruffled white Mark Twain hair, a faded red shirt, and jeans. He is flying through a crossword puzzle. Hunched over his chair, his bulky slightly gone to fat frame is wonderfully symmetrical. His stance is important not just for its aesthetic appeal, but because of his beard. His beard, of course, is also white and is touching his crossword. While his hunchedeness is facilitating that, it still is a long beard. It isn't long enough that I'm going to call the local media outlets, but it sparks my interest. From my own beard growing experiments I can say this is at least a two year beard, plus because this beard is white, I feel like it is older. Please ignore the flaws in logic here, I am. It is possible this person hasn't seen his face sans beard for decades. What if this was his first beard? What if he grew it after his first wife died? What if he was in a biker gang? What if he is a war criminal hiding behind whiskers?

I'm next to these women. They are in line in front of me. They have nice if uninspired clothes. Nice material, well washed, not worn, somber tones and patterns. They are talking about startlingly stereotypical things: shopping, husbands, tiny dogs. One of them bumps into me, which is my fault because I'm standing too close to them so I can eavesdrop. Regardless of my looming being the real reason this woman knocked into me, she spends at least a minute apologizing. I do likewise, then immediately go back to spying on them. Maybe three minutes pass when a group of their friends, 5 or 6 other similar ladies, walk in and the Over Apologizer immediately calls them up to the front of the line. All of these ladies barge through the line without so much as a polite wave. This, in case you were never in third grade, is cutting. A few of the other people in line mutter, and give them nasty looks, but it just bounces off this newly swollen gaggle of women. When they reach th