This is me, laughing at you.
Keep gaping and stacking up that cornucopia of snappy remarks you keep, for times like these. Letting it bubble in your brain jelly. You probably keep a whole slew of them tucked behind your ear for rainy days and lucky you it’s blasting fucking Niagara Falls outside.
No no ne no ne no no-I probably won’t stop.
I could laugh at the trees…
The trees outside the bus, despite it being May, are still as naked as dead baby birds. The few that have leaves hang low, sloppy, and mushy. Crack that nutshell: trees aren’t that funny. There’s an old, moss -covered road sign that says "CAUTION: Water on Road during Rain." I'd laugh at the road sign but too many expired vagabond girl scouts have done that lately, leaving it raped of much humor. Actually, the sign’s not covered in moss. It’s new, a bright, shiny, freshly-baked road sign for all the standard 3.14159+ yearly tourists here to sink their teeth into. Actually, there is no such sign. But if there was such a sign I still wouldn’t laugh at it.
I'd laugh at that fat fuck bus driver 89059847348 rows in front of me, but he's fat, and that's not funny.
I can't laugh at the road sign.
I can't laugh at the fat driver.
The only funny thing in this wheel-driven-piss-colored-road-muncher is you. I guess I find hilarity in that. God, I love the way you secrete that cabbage patch head under a dead beanie baby and some sweet Jackie O glasses. Got them rad blips and vizzies falling like cashmere out the sides of your earphones. You probably spent weeks trying to stumble upon such high quality lo-fi. I had a cabbage patch doll just like you, it spat up when you pressed its tummy.
You’ve got on the most cultured thrift-jizzed pair o’ pants I have ever had the pleasure of seeing. I thank you with the tip of my hat for the eyegasm. Pockets pockets everywhere. The right one you have a pocket full of posies. The left one you surely packed with the bossest buds on this side of the rainbow. Montel William’s pharmacist would be smitten to have some of that swept under the table.
Then again, the only talk shows people like you and I acknowledge are downloaded from Kazakhstan.
This bus is canoodling with a traffic light that’s been stuck on red for eleven minutes. Or am I just savagely colorblind and it’s now green and we passed it already? We left the intersection eleven minutes back and fat bus driver is licking his lips at the bakery out his window.
11:11-make a wish fishy fish and blow out the candles before little jimmy shoves his head into the cake and his overly-buoyant noggin is floating on flames.
And (insert personal creature of worship) don’t we all hate mirrors.
Right, that wasn’t a question.
-hayley
p.s. I like the way you dance to my harmonica.
