sons of bitches

Yesterday I went to the Walgreen’s by the Westgate mall, a drug store I had not been to since I was in middle school. I remembered how one time I was outside of this store with my friends Troy and James. James had some packets of mustard and ketchup and he squirted them onto the handle of the pay phone, to piss of the next person who used it, I guess. I remembered thinking it was a stupid and petty gesture.

Today I was on a run in the old neighborhood and a fat, adolescent boy with a crew cut and glasses riding his bike called out something that sounded like ‘Dwight’ or even ‘blight’ or 'blike.' The first makes more sense but I’m not sure if people that age are watching The Office. I guess I have to check out the demographics. At any rate, I was more insulted than usual by this comment because I was in athletic gear, running—and I didn’t have weird glasses.

As I continued to run, I wondered, why are people at that age such sons of bitches? I can understand why they’re that way with each other, but I’m an adult to them. I could’ve tackled those motherfuckers, or even just yelled at them and scared them.