Dear crazies.

Why, oh why, do the two drunks harassing people at the market bus stop have to sit right next to me once the 56 arrives? They tried to board through the back, only to wind their way back to my secure area right at the front. My only defense is to plug in the ipod and pretend that I'm sleeping.

Why (once the drunks finally get off) does there have to be a gawking old man sitting directly across from me wearing dirt-covered, blood-stained jeans while he roto-rooters his nose? My only defense is to sit there, trying not to stare, comforted by the knowledge that (at a minimum) I can outrun him.

{ Read Joe's very own crazy report from Chicago }