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April 26, 2012

train of thought.

Meant to post this last night, but I collapsed into bed the moment I got home. 

When the bus is late, again, and when it finally comes it’s packed with people who have no bus etiquette and it stops at every corner and people do the same thing: nothing. No one moves to the back, no one offers their seat to the old women standing in front of them. And the bus slowly trudges along like it’s got all the time in the world even though you do not and it finally gets to the orange line and two girls who can’t be older than sixteen stand in front of the back door and don’t move and you know what girls, you picked the wrong day to act dumb and you say, “it would make more sense for the two of you to get off so people can exit.” And you sigh and mumble some non-Catholic words and say hi to Ken and run up the stairs because the escalator is STILL broken and you wait and wait and the train finally comes and you get on and shocker, it’s packed to the gills and women stare at your Audrey Hepburn lunch bag and you want to say, “Barnes and Noble,” but you barely had the energy to snap at those young girls five minutes prior so you close your eyes behind the sunglasses you’re wearing because you woke up with the same migraine you left work with yesterday and you think, “really, can I just get a day off from these headaches?” And you’ve taken nine Advil since you left work and finally caved after dinner and took a magic migraine pill that worked its magic for a few hours, but you woke up at 1:00 and again at 2:00 and took more Advil and had Diet Coke with your breakfast. And you get to the Clark and Lake station to transfer to the brown line and you think, “I wonder if I’ll see Greg, but it’s late and he’s probably not here,” but you run down the stairs, girl you are always running, and you see him and Ruben and you say hi and you chat and then his train comes, but Ruben doesn’t move and you say, “this is you guys.” And you’d love to pet that pup, but you know you can’t. And a minute later your train comes and you get on and settle into the window seat and you don’t understand why a person wouldn’t always want the window seat and you cross the bridge over the river and you see the LaSalle street bridge and you remember taking pictures one year ago next Monday on the day your best friends married each other and how much fun that day was. And you think about who you were a year ago and who you are a year later. And you know that’s not the same person. And every time you cross that bridge you think of all the dancing you did and how your feet hurt for almost a week, but it was worth it. 

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