I would like to believe in the special Hell for people who talk ... and text ... and email ... at the theatre, because on Saturday night, there were some who deserved a one-way ticket -- including you, BB Lady, checking your email for ten freakin' minutes, then leaving it in your hand like some kind of sick security blanket with its FLASHING GREEN LIGHT IN MY EYE ARGH
Not to fucking mention the lady above us who chatted on her phone for so long that my boyfriend had to spin around and ask her to please stop talking. Her clever strategy was not to hear him and continue talking. Later, she had to get something from her plastic shopping bag. I knew, because she rustled it for a good five minutes that a normal cellophane candy wrapper would not need. I hope to God for her sake it was some kind of lifesaving medicine she had misplaced and she was fucking silently asphyxiating from the lack of oxygen that justified her noisy interlude.
And not to fucking mention the man at the right who talked so loudly on his phone that I thought he was only a seat away; turned out he was about half a dozen bodies away. When I craned my neck to look at him, the six people between us had already beat me to it.
posted at 1:02:47 pm
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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