my little life

on the elevator coming back upstairs from getting what was billed as a 'really good' chicken sandwich (but which turns out to be in dire, disappointing need of honey mustard) a tall, skinny q-t pie smiled at me when i held open the elevator door. that's the kind of classy dame i am. i hold open elevator doors. and it gets me sly smiles from academic-ish q-t pies. and i had a little thrill. i tiny teeny one. that was quickly ushered off the stage of my imagination by this more deprecating thought:

my life is so empty that sly smiles from strangers evoke tiny thrills. the patheticness of it all! oh god—you devil! (george burns has never felt quite this a propos).