It wasn’t just the margaritas talking, I really did shoot my wad on all that bitching and moaning about the fare hike. I just want to roll over and go to sleep now, and when I wake up, it will be 85¢ again. All this will have been a bad dream.

But, alas, I cannot sleep. There’s no rest for the Superfriends. Oops. Well, I’m sure many had begun to suspect something like this, anyway. Without compromising my Superhero identity, I have to tell you all… I am the one with the biggest…pompadour. But don’t ask me to divulge anything more, because if I tell you I have to feed you to Gleek.

While I wallow in stage two (blind denial) some have moved on to stage four in the Kübler-Ross Grief Cycle: bargaining. Shugars has divulged she is almost ready to roll with a website devoted to a boycott of the T. When she gets it up and running, I will pass on the url to all of you, my gentle readers. But please, don’t tell Shugars about stage five (depression). She will find out soon enough, I guess.

I was at a movie Sunday. I’ll admit it, I went to see Mission: Masturbation III. Yee-IKES. Tom Cruise IS the new Michael Jackson. But I just was not in the mood for Akeela and the Bee, and RV was all sold out.

The most relevant thing I saw–as far as this blog’s concerned–was the commercial for bed-wetting they played before the movie. It conveyed the message I would like to pass on to you tonight: “I’m not going to let it rule my life.” Not bed-wetting, per se, but, you know, the T fare hike. I’m not a bed wetter. I’m NOT.

I also saw a dead cat on Mass Ave the other morning biking to South Bay Shopping Center (I was the one on the bike, not the dead cat). The Goya products at the new Stuper Slop-n-Shop there are twice, if not three times what they are at the Shaw’s next to the JFK/UMass T station, by the way. Both are about equidistant from my place, in opposite directions of each other, of course. But it’s easier to ride my bike to South Bay. I needed espresso coffee, and in an emergency I always head straight for the Goya aisle, because it’s, like, a buck-seventy for 8 ounces–it tastes like jet fuel, but works like it, too. I’d rather have my Illy, but I have to go all the way Whole Foods to get it.

And lest you think I’m one of these snooty bitches with some fancy-ass Rancilio Silvia espresso machine, here is an actual picture of mine:


Keepin’ it real.

Like I said, this was an emergency, and then I see this dead cat. It looked like it was just lying there on the side of the road, but I knew it was dead. It was not until I cycled back that I saw it’s little face, twisted in a silent scream worthy of Munch. That little face has flashed in my head time and again since I saw it. Was it an omen? Some kind of punishment? That and the bed wetting have made it impossible to attend my usual weekend slumber parties. I have no place to show off my underoos.

Gawd, I hate the T.