While standing in line at the post office, thinking, I sent my sister this text message:
On the bus this morning, I was looking over this woman's shoulder at the newspaper she was reading—I'd just run out of yarn and had nothing to knit with and nothing to do, so I was getting antsy—and I saw a headline about a bus driver stabbed to death by a rider trying to evade paying fair.
I thought that because of the number 52 you see on the front of the bus meant that it was the B52, the bus I take every morning, especially since the incident took place at Gates Ave. and Malcolm X Blvd.
But it turns out it was the B46. (The photo I saw didn't have that top part lit up. The photo I'm showing here is from the New York Times.)
This is horrifying.
I feel bad for the driver's family and friends.
This reminds me that life and people can be dangerous. I sometimes feel that since I'm usually in my own head and thoughts, knitting or doing a crossword puzzle, I'm protected and that I'm in a safe little bubble.
Of course, this is just me being an idiot.
And all that.
This is why I have trust issues. People are capable of many disgusting things.