Ordinary fuckin' people

Today, June 9 in the year of our lord two thousand and ten, was surely the strangest day i can remember. It wasn't strange the whole day through, but the odd things that did happen make me feel like David Lynch is secretly directing my life. Here's how it shook out:

I wake up incredibly late. That is nothing new, but waking up from a NyQuil coma and realizing i have two hours to finish my sketch, shower and eat before i have to leave put me in a strange mood.

I finish the sketch. It's pretty good, I think. I shower and eat a banana on the way to the bus. I'm running late.

On the bus, I sit close enough to a middle-aged woman talking on her phone to hear this shit: 

"I'm fucked. Absolutely fucked. I'm talking full reconstructive plastic surgery. It's happened before"

I look at the woman. She looks fine. I'm very curious about the story behind this conversation. Even more so after the following:

"They put glass in my face, glass in my side, glass in my boobs, glass in my (lowers her voice, not nearly enough) vagina..."

My brain short circuits for a moment. When I come to, I look at the woman again. She still looks fine. She gets off the bus and was not walking like a woman hindered by shards of glass in her lady parts. I consider following her around for the rest of the day, but I'm late for class.

I get off the bus at the Sheffield Red-Brown-Purple Line stop, intending on transferring to a train. I don't think I'll make it however, and opt for a taxi.

I hail a taxi and get in, stating my destination. Off we go. The cabbie takes a phone call a minute in. He asks whomever is on the other side "Who's angry? Who's angry?" Then he begins gently singing a lullaby for ten minutes. I pay the man and exit the cab.

Class. Class went really well, my sketch killed and the teacher offered no notes, he just said that it was really good. This isn't strange, I'm merely bragging.

Class continues, it's around nine p.m. and I realize I've only eaten a banana in twenty-four hours. I'm a bit lightheaded, but I plow through and perform in a classmate's sketch in which I'm a homeless guy that gets sat on (it made sense in context). Anyway, class ends.

I grab a sandwich immediately after class, eat it and then I watch student short films back at Second City. It's dark, the films are odd and I feel...off.

I take the train back to Sheffield and just miss my bus. I decide on another cab. Surely there will be no singing this time.

Wrong. My cabbie is Ray St. Ray, The Singing Cabdriver.

http://www.hounddog.tv/artists/raystray/index.htm

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CIkTUEqXiyg

A fucking singing cab driver. And he's kind of famous. And entirely awesome. He's insane in the best possible way. We chat for a bit at first, he's incredibly friendly, he tells some bad jokes, and then he tells me that he is in fact, The Singing Cabdriver. He asks what kind of song I'd like to hear and offers some choices: love, life, sex, etc. I choose love. He asks what kind of love: sentimental, violent, lust, etc. I choose sentimental. He begins fucking singing. He doesn't have the greatest voice, but it's not bad. The song is simple, but poignant. The melody and word choice really got me. I nearly teared up.

He finished and I applauded. He sang another song about "A James Bond Movie that doesn't exist", which was good and really had some creative rhymes. We arrive at my destination. He gives me a flyer for a show he's doing (of course) and I thank him very much. I tip way lower than I should have, considering the entertainment. I hope to get in his cab again.

Now I'm home and I don't know what to do with myself. How do you go on from here?