May 3, 2003:
She interacts with her TV, shouting "You're so stupid!" at game show contestants.
Her life consists of these half-dozen things: watching TV, talking on the phone, complaining, making demands, bossing her cat, reading fashion magazines. Maybe a seventh, because she sometimes breaks down in hysterical tears, apparently at random. Perhaps it's her way of keeping her opponents in line. The Little Princess of the North.
5 Fulton outbound, crowded, end of a working day. Bumped, jostled: the people are tired.
Your roommate is there, but she doesn't see you. Has her Walkman on, immersed in herself, her little space, as though the world and above all the passengers were beneath notice.
Exiting, she releases the heavy pneumatic door with a cavalier gesture which mimics aristocratic disdain, paying no attention to those behind her. The door is not operating properly. Instead of closing slowly, cushioned by compressed air, it flies off her fingertips as if propelled by cannon shot, catching a frail and surprised old woman square in the nose. While your unconcerned roommate carries her bubble of personal space down the sidewalk, a frail old woman falls bleeding inside a MUNI bus stair well.
"The beach here is so ugly..."
"Really? What beaches are you used to?"
"Well," she says, "Hawaii..."