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I rode in public transportation today. Yes, for the first time ever, I have taken the city bus.
It was a clear and crisp 6am, with half a moon shining on my hat from far above and I was the first passenger of the morning. Very nice, I thought, as I settled into A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I had just finished a Carl Hiaasen book earlier in the evening, watched The Virgin Suicides and started AHWoSG just as I finished work.
I was still in the preface when the second passenger of the morning came aboard. He was an older man, grizzled salt and pepper hair and thick stubble on his face to match. He carried a beige vacuum cleaner circa 1984 and mumbled and murmured to himself. He smelled strong. He smelled like my high school drafting teacher's breath. He smelled like shit. Literally.
The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful, morning commuters of your average, unremarkable sort. The highlight was Dave Eggers who writes like I think when I’m not paying attention to what I'm thinking. Or when I'm thinking too much. Synchronistically, he mentions getting struck by lightning. Hmm...
So now I sit in Jacquelyn's apartment, eating soft flour tortillas and sipping Bell's Oberon Ale. Breakfast of Champions, you say? No, that's the name of a Vonnegut book, which has nothing to do with ale or tortillas.
In a little while I will hop back on a bus and head to the far east side of Madison, where I will appropriate my roommate's car. From there, I will travel to and fro, arranging the towing and repair of my lightning-damaged vehicle. Even though the Ben Franklin-inspired bolt of electricity from Heaven fried certain vehicular components, I am amazed that yes, I have been singled out by the sky gods for whatever purpose, and now can say honestly, "Hi, I'm Jeremy and I've been struck by lightning."
I just looked up the statistics... The chance of getting struck by lightning in your lifetime is only about 1 in 3000. Getting struck twice is about 1 in 9 million. When I look at these odds, it doesn't seem so unlikely anymore. The nickel-sized ball of scar tissue above my heart, a.k.a. mediastinal fibrosis, only appears in about 1 in 20 million people.
Apparently, I am one destined to beat the odds.
It was a clear and crisp 6am, with half a moon shining on my hat from far above and I was the first passenger of the morning. Very nice, I thought, as I settled into A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I had just finished a Carl Hiaasen book earlier in the evening, watched The Virgin Suicides and started AHWoSG just as I finished work.
I was still in the preface when the second passenger of the morning came aboard. He was an older man, grizzled salt and pepper hair and thick stubble on his face to match. He carried a beige vacuum cleaner circa 1984 and mumbled and murmured to himself. He smelled strong. He smelled like my high school drafting teacher's breath. He smelled like shit. Literally.
The rest of the ride was fairly uneventful, morning commuters of your average, unremarkable sort. The highlight was Dave Eggers who writes like I think when I’m not paying attention to what I'm thinking. Or when I'm thinking too much. Synchronistically, he mentions getting struck by lightning. Hmm...
So now I sit in Jacquelyn's apartment, eating soft flour tortillas and sipping Bell's Oberon Ale. Breakfast of Champions, you say? No, that's the name of a Vonnegut book, which has nothing to do with ale or tortillas.
In a little while I will hop back on a bus and head to the far east side of Madison, where I will appropriate my roommate's car. From there, I will travel to and fro, arranging the towing and repair of my lightning-damaged vehicle. Even though the Ben Franklin-inspired bolt of electricity from Heaven fried certain vehicular components, I am amazed that yes, I have been singled out by the sky gods for whatever purpose, and now can say honestly, "Hi, I'm Jeremy and I've been struck by lightning."
I just looked up the statistics... The chance of getting struck by lightning in your lifetime is only about 1 in 3000. Getting struck twice is about 1 in 9 million. When I look at these odds, it doesn't seem so unlikely anymore. The nickel-sized ball of scar tissue above my heart, a.k.a. mediastinal fibrosis, only appears in about 1 in 20 million people.
Apparently, I am one destined to beat the odds.
