stranded in snobville

I am sitting outside a very snobby cafe in NW Portland and, you know, I wasn't going to say anything about it, I was just gonna let it slide, until a woman walked by with a whippet and, well, that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Whippets, those tiny, toy cousins of the greyhound, are like the gold-tennis bracelets of pets. Delicate, classy, purely ornamental and expensive. Gag me. If Paris Hilton wasn't so trashy, she'd be dragging around a whippet instead of a chihuahua, which has so much class it gets to be the spokesdog for taco bell chalupas. Whatever.

I don't know what else to say except: why am I here?? My car's in the shop and I'm at the mercy of public transportation this weekend. I've made SK's apartment my homebase, everything I own is neatly stacked in ber bedroom floor. She's working on some freelance stuff for an hour this morning and I've walked down for a coffee and some wi-fi, and it's like I walked into the twilight zone. I do not belong with these upscale yuppies. They make my skin crawl. It doesn't help that I drew stars all over my left hand with black ink pen yesterday at work and I look a little like a carnie today. Oh, and, I'm not wearing a bra. I don't think they like that either. Oh well.