Where I Declare War on Center Walkers

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It often seems I am walking upstream on the sidewalk in my neighborhood shopping areas, dodging people left and right and saying 'sorry' or 'excuse me' when one of their bony elbows jabs me. Listen to me now: there are two kinds of people in this world, those who walk down the center and the others who move out of their way.

I am a mover. After 30 years of darting left and right, sometimes at great peril to my hot chocolate or coffee, it all ends tomorrow morning. In a few hours, I greet the new dawn as a center walker. I have a few failed attempts behind me, but thanks to a plastic tonight who forced me to walk clear around her, her puffy dog and the newspaper dispenser, I mean it this time.

It seems nasty stuff collects around the bottoms of newspaper machines, stuff like dog shit. And when you're wearing really cute Sailor Jerry Converse high tops with all those little hollow diamonds in the sole, you better just sit down with a toothbrush and get to work. Fuck you, Plastic. My whole closet smells like poop now, even after tooth brushing my sole all through American Idol.

It's on, center walkers. Tomorrow, I walk the line. I'm not moving to either side and I advise you to face down your own center walkers before you're rerouted into a pile of shit. I can't wait to walk down the street tomorrow like I own it, like a DIVA. I better get some sleep for the big day. Time to brush my teeth.

Why not subscribe? I stepped in poop, dammit.

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