At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Monday, February 27, 2017


Some people need a talking-to. All their lives they have laboured under the grievous misunderstanding that they are special, and need particular consideration. Much of Marin County is like that. And one of the bus drivers on the route I take back into the city from Marin is like that. Unfortunately.
No, this wasn't this evening; today's driver is a capable, courteous, and efficient young fellow with much patience and affability.
Shan't mention which day it is, on the off-chance that Golden Gate Transit is hanging on my every word.

Suffice to say he has a talent for making himself suffer.
Because he is very Marinite, and deserving!

One feels inclined to utter words of comfort.

"Now now, stop being miserable, you little weird-ass woogus!"

That is what one might say, if the blighter were at all approachable. But it will not happen. Because maybe he would start shouting, or weeping.
And one does not wish for either of those eventualities.
So one lets him stew and fume.

I hope his employer health plan covers therapy.
Because he will probably need it.
And soon.

His chakras are all out of whack, and his aura, which one presumes should be a proper Marinite tie-dye with lots of vibrant orange, yellow, and pink, is very likely all black. There's a troubled shadow looming over him, he's an old soul and mighty grumpy, which he probably was in his first of many past-lives as a twenty-thousand year old sacrificed Inca virgin.
He needs some crystal healing, poor baby.
And a juice cleansing.
Burnt sage.

The driver schedule will change in another few weeks.
I am looking forward to that.

It is taking all my willpower to not utter the words of comfort.

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