Sunday, January 17, 2010
I almost hit the queen of Pittsburgh with my car yesterday. She stepped suddenly out from between two parked cars. I swerved, and she didn’t even notice. She looked like she was 28 going on 40, and had matted, greasy, blond hair. She was wearing actual fucked up, old, torn jeans, not expensive, fake vintage jeans, and a blue plaid flannel shirt underneath a brown satin baseball jacket. There were bags under her eyes and a cigarette in her mouth. At least that’s what I could tell in the quarter of a second that I saw her. She just kept walking across the street like nothing had happened.