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But in the case of today, it caused us to find a comically better solution to the problem.
I was trying to find the right analogy regarding this new solution, and the best I could come up with is that they told us we needed to go to a building every night, blindfolded, and find a rope on the side, climb up to the roof, and then using a pick axe, tunnel into the building via the roof, and then wander the rooms inside looking for a big box, and then take said box and climb back out the roof, and back down to the ground. The box would need to be opened and all of its contents would look exactly the same, but would need to be sorted by unknown means.
But then one day you show up during the day without your blindfold on, and you see that there is a door to the building, and you open it and go inside, and there is a clear box that weighs much less, and right on the side of it is a label telling you exactly what is inside of it, and each item looks different and so you just sort the items based on similar traits.
I don't know, made sense to me.
Today when I was outside, I walked by a bus stop and there was a woman sitting there on a stone pillar, looking very tired. And I can't blame her, because she was alternating between:
1) leaning forward and screaming as loud as she could "ARRRARGGGH"
2) same thing, but yelling "POLTERGEISTS"
3) drinking vodka from a clear bottle (with label, out on a busy street, with a cop standing right behind her), and smoking cigarette - looking as if she could not be more bored with life
More importantly, she looked EXACTLY like Chris Farley. With long stringy dirty (as in actually dirt caked) blond hair, and huge sweaty breasts that sagged past the waist of her stained sweat pants.
I fully expected her to get up one of the times and fall on top of an oddly placed coffee table, completely destroying it.
ARARGGGHHHHH
I could just picture her doing this all day, and then at 5pm looking at her watch and getting up, catching the bus, and heading home. She walks through the door of her home and her husband is there, wearing a colander on his head, holding a pair of stained underwear up in front of him like a newspaper, feet up in front of him, nothing on but flippers - and he says to his wife "oh hello dear, how was your day" and she just lets out a sigh as her shoulders slump and says "oh man, the worst - can't wait 'til Friday". Then heads over to the corner to poop herself, grab a handful of cat litter for a snack, and then make dinner.
Note that this woman was sitting in the seat of another woman who usually sits there blasting a boom box, but singing along so loudly and so out of tune that I can only assume she is deaf and purely going by feel more than any other sense.
Not sure where she was today.
I saw my first prostitute a few days ago on this same street. Not as in I was a client or anything, and I'm sure I've seen many more and didn't realize it - but this woman was subtle about it and in her fishnet stockings over purple granny underwear with one high heel and one high top sneaker, a bra and a shredded football jersey, with hair that clearly had been hairsprayed and slept on in successive moves one too many times in the recent past, limping along the side of the street screaming at people passing by WHO WANTS TO FUCK?! YOU WANT TO FUCK? WHO WANTS TO FUCK?
She saw me openly staring at her and headed towards me with her one-heeled limp, waving around what looked like may have been a single leather sleeve from some coat that had long since been lost - and I couldn't help but wonder how old she was. She looked 50ish, and I wondered how long she's been doing this, and what sort of success this strategy resulted in.
But before she could get too close, a policeman came running over - presumably to get her out of the street - or perhaps he was going to take her up on her offer.
Ahhh, Central Square - good times.
Spare change? Smaaaaaalll change. Spare change? Smaaaaaaaalll change. I like to think that guy isn't really asking for money, but instead just making social commentary to pass the day.