After a night of nearly launching myself at my roommate and his presumably deaf, blind— and I imagine, headless—beau (it’s the only explanation with any sense to it), I was not in a mood to deal with anything Monday morning when I boarded the bus.
I imagine that’s why the Universe handed me a straightjacket full of utter lunacy.
Headphones on, bleary eyed, cranky, and unaware, I walked onto the bus. I noticed an…interesting…woman who seemed to be involved in a rather intense conversation with a man across from her and a seat forward (though these seats in the middle of the bus face each other). I passed between them, mumbled an “Excuse me,” and plopped down in a vacant seat.
I had passed through the white trash Argument of Ages and came out unscathed.
This female was a hot mess. Her makeup looked as though it was applied by a blind drag queen and then touched up by a kindergartener with vertigo using a paint roller. Avril Lavigne and Taylor Momsen would have looked at this crazy woman’s eye makeup, recoiled, and said, “Sweetie, sometimes less is more.”
She was probably in her twenties, but looked like she was in her thirties. Late thirties. And had spent a great deal of that time being dragged around on her face by her meth addiction. I’m certain that she was once unique looking but very pretty. She reminded me of Fiona Apple (whom I love), but only if she had meth rocks instead of chicklets to chew on.
She had runny raccoon eyes, blue eyeshadow under them, crooked lipstick, mussed hair, and about 6 bags around her (not including the ones dusted with eyeshadow and eyeliner lying full and pendulous under her eyes). She didn’t appear to be homeless, just loaded down. She also looked to have a cherry Icee. At 6:00am. I’m going to assume it was a margarita with crack rocks rather than salt around the rim.
I’m not here to talk about the sadness of drug addiction or to judge anyone going through it. It’s sad, far too prevalent, and a horrible state of being. What I am here to talk about is this total lunatic, presented to you by the Meth Labs Inc. on public transportation. This woman made Ellen Burstyn at the end of Requiem for a Dream look composed and coiffed by comparison. (Ellen Burstyn was robbed of the Oscar that year, by the way. I’m looking at YOU, Julia Roberts.)
Meth and a bevy of other drugs had taken this once pretty young girl and made her into a screaming, raving lunatic, transforming her into the Mighty Cracktasmia. *flourish of trumpets* She was yelling at the man across from her, demanding to know why he took her picture. He insisted that he didn’t take her picture. She was screaming at this point, shrieking like a harpy with its wing slammed in a car door. “Why the fuck would you do that? You took my picture, asshole!” and other such pleasantries. She continued to shriek, “Why would you take a picture of me?!”
I found myself wondering the same thing.
Had I wanted to get involved, I could have told them both that it was 6:00am and dark outside. All the lights we passed would have flashed in and may have appeared to be a camera phone flash. Then again, he may have taken a picture. Who knows?
She turned to an older Latino couple who rides the bus every morning. He always has this weird grin on his face, and Cracktasmia took this to mean that he was laughing at her. (In her defense, he usually does look rather smug.) “What? Why are you smiling? You think this is fucking funny? Did he take a picture of me? Did you see a flash or not?”
Cracktasmia then turned on the man’s wife. “You saw it, right?” She turned to me and asked the same thing. Still bleary eyed and amused despite the human suffering I saw before me, I said, “I just got on the bus. I have no idea.”
So, she turned to the man’s wife, who was not saying anything. “Hello? Do you UUUUUNDERSTAAAAND me? Do you fucking speak English?” The woman, English speaking or not, refused to answer. This further infuriated Cracktasmia.
She screamed at this woman about five times, eventually dissolving into the eternal white trash standby. “Go back to fucking MEXICO if you don’t understand English, bitch! You hear me, right? Go back to fucking Mexico!” When she got no reaction, she turned back to the original source of her ire, repeating her litany of abusive insults and questions.
He finally got sick of telling her that he didn’t take a picture of her, got up, and took a seat toward the front of the bus. Someone rang the bell to get off at the next stop. Since I was sitting facing Cracktasmia and her bags, I saw her look, get excited, and make a spur of the moment decision. I actually watched it dawn on her face. However, with all that meth in her system, she was rather fast.
She grabbed her bags, ran up, elbowed this guy in the head, spilled her Icee on him, and said in a shockingly convincing tone, “Oh, my GOD! I’m SO sorry!” and ran off the bus.
I think the guy should have tripped her ass.
Still, it was a hell of a way to wake up. The rest of my day was pacific and enchanting compared—my problems paled in comparison to the thought of spending a lifetime like that. There is no deep message here, no insights, nothing good other then a rock (ha) solid confirmation that, as Mr. Mackee so often says: