Bus Report #711
Out the window, to my left, a young woman stalks across the street, swinging her arms and yelling, quite loudly, in a voice that can only be described as sad, cracked out valley girl.
If she wasn't barefoot and didn't have toilet paper in her hair, she'd look like any sorority girl in anywhere, USA. She's blonde, lightly tanned, and while her clothes are a little dirty, she could be any girl on her way to class or work, in her denim skirt and her pink tank top.
She's still walking up 16th when I get out and make my way to the cafe to get my morning coffee.
She's behind me, still yelling, crying, too, and through my headphones I try to make out what she's saying, but despite the familiar inflection, the every-other-word usage of 'like', she is spouting gibberish.
She crosses the parking lot at the Potrero Center and disappears into Safeway.