Due to subway claustrophobia, I walked home. As I reached Houston, I saw this pretty, young blond woman walking at a good clip up ahead of me. Her hair was pulled back. She wore black leggings and striped top, bag slung over her shoulder--nicely put together overall. Stopping at a restaurant table, she snapped a picture of diners. It was hard not to notice her high-pitched voice as she rambled about "changing energies, both sexual and material." Oh hell, I thought. Is everyone crazy? I pushed on past, hoping she'd get absorbed in her bananas and ignore me. Of course, she didn't. She matched my pace, seemed to get closer to the point where I decided to pause and let her go by. She never stopped her one-sided-conversation. In a frightening moment, with me stalled at the curb, she looked back. We locked eyes. There was no blurry, muddy expression on her face, which unnerved me even more. I know my meth and heroin face, the boozy stumble, the pot stare. Blondie surged ahead and kept talking, and so did I but from a distance. When she was half-a-block away, she stopped, turned toward the traffic and unleashed this terrifying rage, killer rage, like I-could-easily-no-problem-stab-you-in-your-sleep rage. Size doesn't matter.
General Petraeus might just be a big horndog, which I blame entirely on the pressure of politics, the limelight, the media and show biz--intersecting professions if not identical. Poor shmoopie. Not only is there one other woman, but possibly two. His wife is allegedly furious. Ya think??? This is such a lame story, I can't bear it.
Saw the trailer for Les Miserables and I'm filled with despair when I confess a desire to see it. Damn you, Anne Hathaway.
Exercise and sin journal: Ran 4 miles. Walked 3 miles. Ate 1/3 Snickers bar and practically nothing else--maybe mac and cheese.