I have a tendency to zone out. Wonder off to another place for a minute. Maybe a quarter-hour. I guess I get it from Ms. Janie. Probably my mom too. People say Ms. Janie could go into space. Even when she was out with her family having dinner. People watching. Examining the latest fashions. Inspecting posture and cleanliness. Those things can tell you a lot. It’s anthropological. Observation only. Public transit perfects the zone out. Everyone is a stranger. To keep occupied, I move outside myself. Take in surroundings. I let my brain overstimulate. Give my eyes permission to stare. Behind whatever sounds speakers jam into my ear canals, someone laughs way too loud. Was it really that funny or you just wanna impress the girl next to you? Then there’s the asshole who interrupts. Throws the balance off and causes a mental trip. What did he just say to me? Called me a WHAT? Doe-eyed idiot. The 8-track in my brain skips. Sometimes I manage a fuck you! or present an elegant middle finger (also inherited from Ms. Janie). Never as good as what I come up with after I switch to the bus or stand stewing in the elevator. My best lines come back home in my tiny living quarter. 298 square feet of coulda-woulda-shoulda. I want to punch something. Break something. Scream. But I don’t. Don’t want to damage stuff I’ve used hard-earned cash to pay for. Get kicked out of my apartment. Have the bratty co-ed next door think I’m nuts. I take it out on pillows. Poor pillows. They’ve done nothing wrong. ‘Cept being malleable. Suppose the next step would be a punching bag, but that would look weird in the middle of my living-/dining-/bedroom/office. 
 Typed in iPhone Notes App. 
Late afternoon, February 13, 2012. 
Northbound Red Line, Chicago, IL. 
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