judge me, damnit.

so, i was talking to my friend cheryl from bay area the other day. and she mentioned how she's the minority down in her neck of the woods. (i grew up with white bread. lots and lots of white bread. don't get me wrong, there is absolutely nothing wrong with white bread. in fact, i prefer it.)

but anyway, she said when she goes to her local coffee shop (starbucks, is it?) they—the wheat/rye/sourdough-looking baristas across the counter—always spell her name with an 's.' as in [s]heryl rather than [c]heryl. 

cheryl, being a lovely thinker such as myself, came up with a theory that depending on what you look like or what the barista looks like (i'm talking bread type, people!), they will spell your name [s/cheryl] accordingly.

that said, i've decided to jump on the bandwagon and try out the s/cheryl challenge. i've been to tully's downtown by the workplace once so far, and damnit, they didn't ask for my name. but i'm excited. and cheryl says she is 75% sure they will spell my name with an 's.' 

i've asked a couple of other people and they all think they'll spell it with a 'c.' i figure it really depends 1) if you know a s/cheryl, and if you do, how they spell their name and 2) you got it, ethnicity. 

we'll see how seattle judges me. i personally think a sourdough-looking person such as myself would be spelled with a 'c.' 

perhaps you'd be interested in taking the s/cheryl challenge as well. 

oh, and, it is fair to note that when i tell those baristas my name is ty, they tooootally pause and judge me. i frequently hide the cup of my vanilla or peppermint latte with a hot-sleeve, as the "thai" or "tai" really offends me. :P 

i mean, come on, people. 

oh, buses.

so. it was 4:35 and i was waiting for the bus down on sketchville 3rd and pike. to tell you the truth, i hate waiting at this stop. i find myself daily, dodging eye contact with those boozy men in tattered leather jackets and trying not to get my robot tote bag dirty when the messy-haired coke addicts obliviously storm past me. avoiding this repeated scene is my daily battle, so i jumped at the chance to catch bus 11 when it rolled up. to my surprise, the bus was stuffy-crowded and i was forced in the back. it's fall now, and in seattle that means 50s and damp. oh, seattle. at least i could breathe. so, i was on this bus, slightly irritated that this woman had her monstrous duffel bag resting on my side. then i started to think about the movie i watched the night before--match point--and tried to detect if i could feel any sharp objects in her bag (oh, you know, such as a rifle). after deciding my side was likely safe of any sudden shots to the appendix, the bus came to a halt and i was freed from my paranoia, quickly taking the nearest open seat. just as i began to relax and thank the rifle for not firing, i looked around and realized i was accompanied by a much different crowd on this bus. uhh, what is this bus 11, anyway? shit-shit-shit. we stopped at a red light and my stomach was doing somersaults. i began to worry we would take a dramatic turn and enter the freeway express lanes--you know, where people like me go to die. damnit. leaving work early just became counterproductive. one.two.three.four.five. i stopped holding my breath when i realized the mystery bus was still headed toward the hill, away from fast speeds and concrete evil.