instant karma's gonna get you

Lounging in Washington Square Park after the game this afternoon, Cass and I discussed, in low voices, the shoes and clothes of passers-by. A twenty-or-thirty-something woman with huge sunglasses and unrealistically frizzless hair walked by, yapyapyapping on her cell. She was dragging a huge, pony-sized dog behind her; the dog limped, and looked thirsty, and stopped to poop in the middle of the walkway. The woman, still on her cell, completely failed to notice the hot, smooshy, light brown turd her dog had left directly in the path of walkers-by.

So we sat there for fifteen minutes, watching the poo, as person after person failed to step in it. Sometimes they saw it, and sometimes it was just sheer luck. We were kind of cheering for someone to walk in it, though, amusing the men on the next bench with our running commentary. We decided that there must be a paper to be written about peripheral vision, or unconciously seeing what other people avoid and then avoiding it yourself, or statistics. And we went on with our lives.

Still, it was kind of mean of us. Or, not 'kind' of; just mean.

When I got home there was a roach in my desk. IN it. In the q-tip box. Apparently facinated with my pens and stapler and phone bill.

Ugh.

John Lennon said it best, didn't he?