I'm on the metro home from work. Late. Because even though I'm miserable, all of that birth order hoo ha is completely true. I am not going to break any rules, stop over-achieving (hi first-borns!), or disappoint my superiors just because of a little misery?!
So I am sitting in one of those coveted seats, with no inward-facing seats in front of me, in the first row. By the window. I'm ipodless, bookless, knit-less and paperless, for once. I usually need an army of supplies to get me through my 16 minute commute or I am as cranky as a toddler on an endless road trip.
So I'm employing the standard Marge Simpson method-- closing my eyes and thinking of items I'd like to purchase to pass the time.
As I'm off enjoying visions of not sugarplums, but slingbacks, I hear someone behind me.
"I'm gonna bust a rocket up your ass. Yeah, I said it. I'm gonna bomb you."
I'm snapped out of my fantasy of shoe shopping with Stacey and Clinton and think, "huh.... I'm not sure who that was directed towards", and decide to resume fabricating the perfect flat, knee-high boot.
"Yeah, and I need an apple, or yogurt or something.... With some FLAX!" the voice behind me exclaims.
Now I'm intrigued.
It's the million-dollar question.
Are they crazy, or is it just Bluetooth?