Crimminy. Zee life, eet eez so lame.
I fall for it every time. I ride my bike past a West Oakland bakery that smells like the freshest, moistest most sugary delicious donut known to man. I inhale deeply, obsessively, virtually panting. And then I get hit with the most vulgar, piss-n-shit sewer stench I've ever encountered. No burning man porta-pottie compares.
Burned, every time. No heavenly scent can co-exist in an urban world. It's not meant to be.
Glad we got that out in the open.
Sunday I went to the MOMA to see the Diane Arbus exhibit. I went by myself, because I like to view museums in my head at my own pace.
Goddamnit though, the rest of the assholes in the world don't agree. Not only does everyone feel the need to prove their boundless intelligence by discussing each piece of art at megaphone volume with their poser acquaintance, but apparently it's also a good time to talk about your job, your pets, your kids, your carpet cleaner, your tube socks, your long distance bill and other aspects of your inane life.
Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
As predicted, we filed through the exhibit as if in a cattle chute. People hovered, smacked gum, breathed on my neck, belched in my ear and, as briefly touched upon, could not contain their brilliance.
I am a bitch for a reason. People are morons.