• The badass, tiny, older white lady, crossing the street and stopping traffic with her cart, wearing pink shorts and a big sun hat, enthusiastically waving thank you at the cars she stopped.
  • Her moon, the overweight, bearded white dude with stains on his shirt, wheeling a cart with three thirty-racks of Busch Lite and Little Debbie’s snacks in it.
  • The construction worker whose beard looked dyed black, repairing a sidewalk seemingly by himself, throwing two-by-fours off of a tilted dump truck and grimacing.
  • The dental surgeon’s office.
    • The moody lighting in the waiting room.
    • The nauseating, textured, brown vortex commercial painting in the x-ray room.
    • Accidentally insinuating that my mom might not want to call the administrator because she was black?
  • The shirtless biker wearing a bandana, looking exactly like David Foster Wallace.
  • The way digital highway signs emulate the physical ones.
  • My underwear, from the batch I bought at H&M in Canada when I forgot mine at home on a Blisters tour, working in tandem with my pants to make it hard to play the drum beat I was playing.
  • The four-dollar Indian food from Devon, spicier than I bargained for, making me think I was gonna puke.
  • The guy at the bar, smiling all night, happening to use a wheelchair, ogling girls’ butts.