Grimey, dirty, nasty

Half my posts here have been about cockroaches.  It’s time for a post about dirty people.

Living in a city is all about being enclosed with people in metal boxes and being moved around.  The only ventilation to these boxes comes from the brief moments that the doors are open to allow more people to bring their own contributions to the nasty smell swarm of unwashed hair, cream cheese/garlic breath, farts, and layers of sweat and piss.

Crazy people talking to themselves is disconcerting.  I’m tired of having days where they all talk to me.  It’s almost like they get in line.  Today was one of those days.

Outside the library, waiting for it to open, a bag lady wanted to talk about the book I was reading.

Also, a woman who must have forgotten to grab the coat without the dog pee on it that morning, gave me  a play by play of  her stressful morning leading up to the present moment in which she was late late so very late oh no no no.  So great was her distress that I actually began to empathize with her, hoping the elevator would move faster so she could be on time for her appointment.   Or maybe I just wanted to escape the smell.

A fat man with bad teeth and an ill fitting stained T-shirt standing on a corner asked me if the street he was on was Jackson.  He was standing ten feet from the street sign.

An unkempt man was coming up from the subway as I was going down.  He said “You got it, girl.”  Huh?

I think I was wearing the ‘if you stink, talk to me’ outfit.  (For anyone who wants to attract a following, it’s thick frame glasses, black tuxedo pants, a single breasted knee-length coat, and a gray crew neck shirt.)

It’s sad to see all these people a victim of their own minds.  It’s also scary.  I always guard my stuff when this kind of stuff happens, but man.  I have no idea what it is.

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