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     $$     .d""b. .d""b.                  HOE E'ZINE #1032
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     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$ss$$                      "Hej då!"
     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$                        by, AnonGirl
     $$  $$ $$  $$ $$  $$                       3/08/00
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     $$  $$ "TssT" "TssT"

	So there I am, standing at the bus stop on an unusually warm yet 
 wet February evening.  Listening to music in my discman, standing on the
 sidewalk grooving, I decide that today was a good day.  I didn't go into
 work, I partied the night before, and now it's warm outside.  If winter
 were like this all the time, it wouldn't be so bad.  Sure, it's a little
 slushy, but everyone can deal with slush much better than cold weather.
	Standing at the bus stop groovin', I think about having to go into
 work tomorrow.  That's going to suck.  The HR chick wants to see my first
 thing in the morning.  I discovered, the other day, that things pass by
 faster when you're only looking two feet in front of yourself.  Like the
 walk on the way home, if I look two feet in front of me instead of three
 hundred, I seem to get home much faster than if I stare at my destination
 constantly.  Maybe I'll get laid off tomorrow.  That'd be pretty damn
 sweet.  Instead, HR chick will probably scold me for taking two days off
 this week, and that I'll have to watch myself.  Yes, my job might be in
 danger.  I couldn't dream of losing such a terrific wonderful exhausting
 plain great office job.  After all, this is my future.
	Where is the bus?  Sure it's warm outside but I want to get home
 so I can chill and do nothing for the rest of the night.  This cigarette
 tastes damn sweet.  The best thing about warm weather is being able to
 smoke outside.  If you smoke outside in the winter, the smoke sticks to
 you and you reek for the rest of the day.  I'm sure you smell bad anyway,
 but in the winter it's like double the stench.  So this is nice.
	I start thinking back to the guy I met yesterday night for drinks.  
 I always tell my friends that the one thing I detest most in life is
 being "set up" with other people.  "Why?" they ask, and I tell them
 "Because there is no use."  But I went along with it this time for the
 fuck of it.  Maybe this time he'd be a sensitive, thoughtful guy who
 didn't care for sports or careers or whatnot.  Maybe he'd be sweet and
 insightful.  But of course, one can only dream.  Talked about sports and
 journalism and politics for the whole hour I stayed.  Didn't ask for my
 opinion on anything, just shoved his own down my throat.  He wants to see
 me again this weekend.  I'll be out of town, or at a relative's funeral
 or birthday party.  I should've known better.
	The city always looks so drab when it's wet and slushy, especially
 at night.  It looks like a car commercial, minus the slush.  Add a sleek
 black sports car and some jazzy trumpet, and we're in a Mazda ad.  Or
 maybe a low budget film from Sweden.  The way that I look right now would
 help play the part of a confused Swede, waiting for the bus.  Black
 ripped-up coat, my hair is a mess, and my eyes are all bloodshot from
 before.  I wish I could speak Swedish right now.  Then I could ask the
 other people waiting, "Hur mår du?", and they'd look at me as though I
 were nuts.
	Still waiting for the damn bus!  The bus driver is probably
 sitting at the terminal drinking black coffee and eating pastries,
 reading Journal de Montreal.  When I was a kid, I used to think that a
 "pastry" was a factory where they made paste.  Like a "Pastery".  People
 laughed at me and called me cute when I said that, but I still think it'd
 be kinda cool, maybe.
	I'd rather be doing like a million other things right now.  But
 instead I'm stuck standing with a group of poor immigrants in acid-washed
 jeans waiting to board the mobile immigrant containment system filled
 with various people and smells.  I so don't need this right now.
 Standing on a corner which signifies the border between my happy little
 suburb and the Greek ghetto.  One side of the street looks like every
 suburb, with big trees and lots of grass.  The other side has a used car
 dealership, a small oriental carpet store and a gay dance club.  What an
 odd place to open a gay club.
	Like ten busses have passed at every other stop in this area
 except mine.  Fat bastard is probably just washing down his pastries with
 his disgusting cold coffee, shifting his blue-uniformed ass and getting
 ready to start driving.  This is just fucking hell, man--
	Fucking goddamnit shit motherfucker bitch-ass fucking christ man,
 _knullar_.  I'm looking down at myself and all I can see from my neck to
 my toes is brownish-grey slush.  My cigarette is no longer lit, and
 resembles a brown, wet piece of something, man.  I can feel wetness
 dribbling down my neck.  This was not what I was fucking expecting.  
 Everyone else is standing inside the booth staring at me.  Fucking shit,
 there's the bus.

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 [ (c) HOE E'ZINE -- http://www.hoe.nu     HOE #1032, BY ANONGIRL - 3/8/00 ]
