I thought a case of the Mondays ended at 6 pm.

At 6:00 pm, I charged across Alma Street. A train was leaving, but I wasn’t worried. Maybe the 5:56 pm train was late. But minutes passed. That was not the 5:56 pm train and I stood with all the other unhappy passengers. I walked down the stairs—or at least took the cement railing balancing my backpack of laundry and a laptop.

Wireless signal received. I checked the caltrain twitter. Not again. Someone down in San Mateo about an hour ago. My Mondays got worse.

At 6:30 pm, I finally boarded the baby bullet train and promptly fell asleep. I didn’t awake until we were halfway up to the city and suddenly I was overburdened with anxiety. Was a bus driver going to yell at me again? Was I wearing enough clothes? Should I even cook today?

It was 7 pm when I got to the bus stop outside the 22nd street station. It was 30 minutes later that got onto the bus, having built up a tolerance to the freezing weather in my t-shirt and skirt. So much for the high 70s weather predicted for San Francisco that day.

Fortunately, as I gave the $1.50 pass to the driver, she looked at me confusedly. I have no idea… she started and handed me a transfer. I mumbled, I have 50 cents… but then stopped completely when she just kept saying yeah I don’t know.

I stumbled to a seat and collapsed, relived that I wasn’t yelled at saving 50 cents.

About 10 minutes later as we were winding down the backside of Potrero Hill, we heard what sounded like small bullets on the window. Rocks or BB gun. I looked at the bus apathetically, wishing I was back at my place. I wanted to whine once again about the commute. But then I saw the damage as a bus driver off duty was screaming at someone in the darkness. She blocked traffic as she told another bus driver to avoid that street. They be throwing stuff, she yelled. Take another street.

At 24th and Potrero, we pulled out and was told it was the last stop. I sighed. It was near the pizzeria of the weekend’s Mission gang shooting. I have always been admittingly naive about living the Mission…walking down Bartlett at 11 pm with bags. Even now armed with pepper spray, I was wary. I passed by a small shrine of flowers and crosses. There were women, girls…lighting candles as a few people whispered about the tragedy that had fallen less than 48 hours before. Two blocks away up on 24th, a local news station van was parked with its satellite arm reaching high in the sky.

I think I don’t want to live in the ‘burbs I thought again for nearly the 30th times this month. I trudged home in the darkness, besieged by the many taquieras, but stumbling into my apartment at 8 pm eating only sunny side up eggs and 6 tomatoes and 20 candies.

I also sprayed my waters gently. The branch that I cut off last week was gone, but it was still living. Exhausted, I collapsed in my chair. Finally figured out Skype and watched Glee…suddenly wishing that I could be a teacher too.

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