NADS. The unfortunate acronym of the National Association for Downs Syndrome.
11:04 a.m.
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I was in a cab last night when we passed a fresh accident. A very upset driver was kneeling over a pedestrian who was writhing on the pavement, bleeding from his head. My cab driver stopped to see what was going on.
Me: Oh my God! Oh my God!
Long, stunned pause.
Me: Jesus, can we do something? What can we do?
Cab driver: Yeah… That sucks.
10 a.m.
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Yesterday I saw a piece of graffiti that read, “Bongo?”
I said, “Yes, please” and waited for drumming hippies to stampede out of Starbucks.
Nothing happened.9:54 a.m.
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I’m on the train this morning when I start paying attention to what I’m thinking. It goes like this, “Picante picante picante picante picante.” I must have read it on a sign somewhere.
After noting that my at-rest mental processes are those of a five year old, I start thinking of other words that stick in my head:
gouache Donahue torpor punctilio albondigasThat last one is the spanish word for meatballs. Albondigas, albondigas, albondigas. 4:43 p.m.
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This morning I found a key on the sidewalk. As a firm believer in the tenets of English Lit, I expect an epiphany shortly.
11:30 a.m.
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