You're supposed to be on top of the pillow, little dude!

Have you ever seen anything more beautiful in your life?

In other news, you should now be able to receive e-mails when someone replies to your comments, if you so choose! Aaand with that update, I should be done with the comment functionality tweaks for a while.

In other news, last week I completed the classroom portion of my driver's education! I still plan to write about the class in the near future, since I found several things about it to be kind of interesting. Not much to report about my actual experiences behind the wheel (three so far) yet, but I haven't hit any pedestrians or parked cars thus far. Hurray...!

So yes, more to come. And feel free to test out the threaded comments!

Sometimes he is dancing.

When I first encountered the crazy dude years ago, I assumed that he was shouting along with whatever music was playing in his ears. This may in fact be the case -- provided that he's listening to angry, violent shouting along the lines of Three Six Mafia -- but I've seen him enough times to seriously question that theory. However hateful and violent the lyrics of Three Six Mafia may seem, they do generally retain rhyme and/or a modicum of reason. The crazy dude's shouting lacks both. I've similarly dispensed with the consideration that he's talking to someone via an unseen cell phone -- people do have some nonsensical conversations, but random and frequently hostile shouting to this extent would likely cause the other party to hang up.

Despite all of this this, I've never really been worried about the guy -- though something should probably be done about a guy standing around and shouting about assaulting and murdering people (even if he doesn't appear to be speaking about a particular target) -- and I've passed by him for years without incident. I didn't assume things would be any different when I spotted him at the intersection of Cherry Lane and Route 1, where I typically cross before turning left en route to the Laurel Lakes Shopping Center. He was standing with his legs bent and his knees together, hopping up and down furiously as if riding an invisible pogo stick, and -- per usual -- hollering some unintelligible violent shit. As he was standing closer to the side crossing, whereas I wanted to continue moving forward, I simply walked past him so that I could stand closer to the road I intended to cross.

I'm not sure what he said first, but I'm absolutely certain that he was speaking to me -- so, naturally, I turned and said, "Hm?"

"Don't run," he barked. "DON'T YOU FUCKING RUN."

Running hadn't occurred to me, though I was rather unnerved when he strafed over to me -- placing us shoulder to shoulder, with me in his peripheral vision -- and sneered, "DON'T TOUCH IT. I DARE YOU TO TOUCH IT."

I thought about asking him what the slag he was talking about. I had initially thought he was going to attempt to rob me -- hence the directive not to run -- but he never produced a weapon or asked for money and instead dared me to touch some unspecified thing, with the clear implication that he would respond violently if I did. I now think that he might have been talking about the button to cross the street, since he might have believed that my doing so would impede his efforts to cross in the perpendicular direction. But since I was standing nowhere near the button and he is clearly fucking crazy, I ultimately have no idea what he meant.

Instead of asking him for an explanation, I stood still, said nothing, and avoided making eye contact. In addition to reminding me of the advised method for reacting to hostile drivers (I started a driver's education course last week), I noted similarities to this approach and recommended ways of avoiding conflict with certain wild animals. He stood glowering sidelong at me for a minute, then walked back to his corner.

And then he returned.

"I FUCKING DARE YOU TO TOUCH IT! ZOMBIE! FUCKING ZOMBIE! DARE YOU TO TOUCH THAT SHIT!" Now he was facing me, shrieking threats at full volume two feet from my ear, his arms spread wide in a bring-it-the-fuck-on-you-goddamned-zombie gesture. I kept my eyes on the road and remained still.

Finally -- with an unmistakable attitude of triumph -- he turned, crossed Cherry Lane, and went on his batshit crazy way.

I'm still a bit angry about the situation, just as I'm still sort of angry about the asshats that occasionally yell insults at me when I'm minding my own business and the bastard who threw a Slurpee at me last year. I hate that people can do this kind of crap to me -- to anyone -- and get away with it. I think I hate that they are allowed to live. And while I can't generally do anything about these people -- these acts are usually committed by individuals in their cars, who drive past so quickly that I'm not even entirely sure which vehicle contained the culprits -- I could reasonably have stopped that crazy fucker if I'd responded quickly.

My hand was in my pocket -- he wouldn't have expected me to whip out a pen and stab him repeatedly in the throat. Or kick him hard in the shin and shove him headlong into the busy street. I considered these and other options -- because when nutjobs start threatening you and calling you a freaking zombie out of nowhere, it makes sense to expect that you might have to defend yourself at some point... and with hostile and unpredictable people on the street, you may have to resort to extreme measures -- but ultimately decided to stand there and do my best to avoid escalating the conflict. Of course, this was probably the recommended, smart, even mature thing to do. And yet I still feel a little weak and inadequate for doing it.

Had I responded in kind and ended up injuring the guy, I probably wouldn't have been proud of my actions. It would have been clear that I could have handled the situation better -- namely by doing what I actually did -- and I would have understood that. At the same time, I don't think I would have felt bad about confronting a hostile presence on the streets, and I would have been satisfied with the knowledge that he would hopefully never accost and threaten another pedestrian again.

My path of travel soon became parallel to that of the crazy guy, so I was able to keep him in view as I headed towards Laurel Lakes. At one point, as he approached another individual, he clearly threw open his arms and caused the other guy to jump back a bit. I was out of earshot, but I imagine that threatening words were spoken as well.

Had I been a real zombie and responded by eating that guy's brain, I might have been able to prevent him from harassing anyone else (at least while he lived). But I am not a zombie.

through the streets of night, like a ghost I glide
when they see me they hush and hide
when they described my deeds, they lied
but that was unsurprising

*Reference to Waspinator.

While looking for photos of Casey Anthony, I also came across this article. It's not a bad read, but something about its tone and diction suggest to me that it was, in fact, written by a sociopath... or someone who was seriously wronged by one. Replace all references to the textbook sociopath with "my ex-boyfriend" and tell me you don't see it as well!

I have no clever or humorous closing remarks for this entry.

The armor of the master is mostly complete.

Brigette Bardot also sounds like a pretty hateful person.

But here's my primary reason for revisiting the topic: I saw the 50th Anniversary Barbies yesterday! I'm not sure if they're supposed to be out before Monday or if the store just broke the street date, but there they were on an isolated display at Safeway, of all places. They were $12.49, which was too rich for my blood -- I think I'll wait until the special $3 price goes into effect. And heck if I could tell you what's different about the face! I'm no Barbie expert, so it looked the same to me as all of the other recent Barbies (and there weren't any others available for comparison). That said, judging from the photo of the creepy-looking 1959 Barbie, she's definitely had some work done over the years.