My cab driver swerved past this dead cat on the road because he said it was bad luck. It wasn't even black. It was red and mangled. And then he said it was "mas malas" (worse luck) to hit a live cat because that will be murder and the Virgin Mary will not like it.
His name is Tys, for Tyson, and he wanted a crown tattoo with the words "King Tys" below it. This will be his first, and if he had the actual courage to shut his royal piehole and get needled already, I remember he wanted it a few inches below his left shoulder. I only met him once, in a smoking area in Megamall, and I doubt I'll see him again. And on the off chance that I do see Tys again, then I doubt he'll get crowned a few inches below his left shoulder.
I walked slower today, and I enjoyed perspiring less. That, and I saw a lot more around me. I saw obscenely priced cup cakes with spectacular frostings of blue and red, ugly dresses on sale, big men with small tattoos, and display rack pastries that resembled piles of brown feces. I walked slower today, and this new wealth of impractical shit still impresses me somehow.
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