sheber girl uber personal

 I was in the uber on my way home, recently these trips are becoming increasingly existential. I used to think ubers were just for famous people, I remember finding out about them through Justin Bieber, obviously not directly, just like on the internet. a car passes number plate SUS 181, paranoia. And I have this feeling, that I often find myself having in lone uber rides home, a window sized screen peppered with familiar graffiti and astigmatised city lights, I find this particular feeling hard to describe or maybe its not that I find it hard to describe but its that it makes me feel extremely shallow to actually acknowledge that I feel this way. But Ill try, for a while, if I’m  lucky I circulate the same group of friends, kind of moving amongst these same faces for ages, it can go for months on end, then ill go out and see someone I didn’t expect or ill roam the streets and see far too many people that are just like me, interchangeably so. And I don’t feel special, this is the shallow part, I have trouble not feeling special, and I encounter people and I encounter more people and those people encounter people and the number becomes so large that the idea of special doesn’t exist anymore, theres too much special or none at all. Which is it? It makes my head hurt because something in me cant handle that no one will ever find me more special than they could find someone else . Its too massive and desperate of a feeling to fit in an uber, we stop abruptly at a traffic light, a man In timberlands and a hi vis carries a boombox across the pedestrian crossing, no it’s a toolbox, no a boom box, my brain cant decide which makes more sense. Anyway the feeling. The feeling ends somewhere between a fist clenching memory of something I did that is not so special and my home address. A block from my house the car slows down for the short road of mildly infuriating speed bumps, two men approach each other arms arched and circular I believe they will now fight in some bizarre ritualistic way but they reach for a telephone pole and begin to yank it, another case of strange looking men in the night turning out to be extremely unstimulating construction workers, in hindsight the toolbox makes more sense. A melatonin induced sleep seemingly nowhere insight, events and feelings seem too good not to document but far too menial to novelise so I settle for whatever this is..

maybe a