Crazy DC Lady in the Van Ness Starbucks; or, What’s So Crazy ‘Bout Peace, Love, and Understanding
June 7, 2009
I was second in line at the local Starbucks, and the woman in front of me had just finished paying. I noticed an older woman standing to my left, jockeying to get the barrista’s attention before he turned to me.
Thinking she may have been in my blind spot, I asked her, “Were you in line?”
She turned to me, oozing crazy. “You’re accusing me of butting ahead of you in line. I know your type, you fucker. ”
If she didn’t seem so crazy, I would have gone round and round with her swearing up a storm. However, she clearly had a performance-enhancing chemical imbalance. I wouldn’t have stood a chance. And I am a fucker. She had me pegged right from the start.
So it goes.
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3 Comments
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congratulations on having a type. and having it being epistemically acessible, i.e. knowable.
I like you you titled this similar to my post about leather ordering “chicken for a salad” at the deli by my office. Here’s the thing: crazy people hardly phase me anymore. I think it’s mostly due to the fact that I live in Columbia Heights. I walk out of my apartment and I am literally surrounded with people who are out of their fucking minds. Your post should be viewed more as a springboard for identifying the shear volume of crazy fucking maggots in this city, than for merely pointing out a run in with one of the many. My two cents.
It’s been so long since I posted a meaningful comment on this blog, that I’ll probably be sore from this tomorrow morning.
Piece out.
-Deej
All the animals come out at night – whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies, sick, venal. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets. I go all over. I take people to the Bronx, Brooklyn, I take ’em to Harlem. I don’t care. Don’t make no difference to me. It does to some. Some won’t even take spooks. Don’t make no difference to me.