It's been an Airlock Monday.
A girl in sunglasses and a "kicky" outfit sucked on a cigar this morning at the bus stop, round about nine in the morning. Seems early to partake of a stogie, especially when one isn't a hardened drill sergeant played by Martin Sheen. The man in the seat in front of me on the bus, the one in the heavy green-and-black flannel, permeated the air with half-damp booze and a hint of rotting flesh, but maybe I'm getting that from the way baggage carousel running in circles under his eyes. The man's face was a northern town's airport. A buddy of his got on after a few stops and they chattered amicably until the buddy got off.
Work was mostly people coughing on me from across the desk without covering their mouths, and I'd dash into the back between to wash my hands with "spiced pear" hand soap, dreaming of full-body decontamination showers with that sanitizing foam and industrial cleaners. It's not like I don't have that sore throat that comes and goes without actually getting me sick; waking up with the sore throat is becoming a regular situation but at least the sore throat's a quieter squatter than the Fear. I ate a huge fruit salad for lunch, mostly because I was craving pineapple for whatever reason. Time to fly south, maybe. M gave me a ride home from work so I didn't have to slog it in the foreign smells and stewing juices and rampant infection. I made haphazard sushi rice and chirashi with avocado and various seafoods, sat and stared.