baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- What the fu ?? So, I've been wondering. Wondering why I rarely know what to write in here anymore. My mind seems cluttered. And it seems to me my thoughts are no longer worthy of archiving as entries. But, I'm walking through the train station the other morning (kind of in a daze because that's my usual state of mind these days) when I notice a skinny fella with very slight features scurrying by me on the right. Actually, what I noticed was the package he was carrying-or, rather, the label on the package he was carrying: "SOILED LINEN" Ewwww. Watdafa? I mean, I'm sure people carry all sorts of gross, weird stuff as they're scurrying through the shiny-tiled beauty that is Union Station. I, for instance, carried my latest CD through there just last week. But, did you see me sporting a label on my backpack that said "Noisy, Annoying, Self-Indulgent Music?" No way. I have manners, foo. I am one civilized mofo. The foo on question, however, clearly needs a quarter or two for a clue. I mean, where does one go with a package of... "SOILED LINEN." More importantly, why would one want to advertise that sort of cargo with huge-ass block lettering? And it was in a plastic, see-through container too...like the ones that have been disowned and abandoned in the company fridge; the ones that leave innocent brown-baggers to guess the nature and smell of the multi-colored contents shining through the tupperware. Clearly, I'm traumatized. Thankfully, he didn' t sit next to me on the ride in. I mean can you imagine? You're sitting there trying your best to concentrate on "A Prayer For Owen Meany" when someone sits down next to you with a package of... "SOILED LINEN." Ewwww. Wadafa? And don't even get me started on the "Extremely Loud Cell Phone Conversationalist." Too late! I suppose the definition of "too loud" is open to debate. After all, we are on a train the squeaks, rattles and rolls every second of the way. But, let me get something straight, foo: If I can hear your sorry ass whining about what a loser your better half is while Cake is blasting in my Sony headphones, then YOU ARE TALKING TOO GOSH DARN LOUD. Oh, and by the way, I don't got one of those cheezy tiny-ass headphones that look all dainty and shit. I have thick, padded, pro headphones that are designed to block out external noise so I can concentrate on whateva it is I want to concentrate on. And it most certainly isn't YOU Mr. or Ms. Cellphone. I used to have more intelligent entries. they were romantic, thoughtful, and hell, maybe even a few had less than 10 grammatical errors in them. But, lately, my thoughts are scattered. My brains are splattered. All over, Los Angeles. And they all ask the same question: Wadafa? 2:27 p.m. - 2002-07-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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