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german woman I cannot call my friend

2003-12-04 - 8:08 p.m.

I bumped into a raw food guy at the market tonight; he's one of the people that I see sometimes at the raw dinner at the lighthouse Sat. One of the women that shows up there was a victim of the Santa monica farmer's market crash, the man that ran into all those people a few months ago ran into her too. She is from Germany I think, and has white hair that falls in a bob on her shoulders. She has a thick accent and I didn't care for her too much the previous times I met her. I thought maybe after the accident, listening to her speak about it at the table, that I would learn to appreciate her out of the sheer fact that she was alive and wounded, but no luck. She likes to lick the plate after she eats, which no one in particular notices in this setting. All I can think of is that I may someday eat from the same plate she is licking, and so I volunteer to do the dishes that night. And any other night I know she's there. Hottest water I can stand. She's pleasant enough, although I do trip over some of her words:

brother = bradere

I was dying = Ioh ass deing

This is good, Don = this goodon!

What can you do? = so what I can do?

He cut me off when I was talking = you wandoo speak, speak, Anders.

Also, after the man hit her, she fell to the ground, which I do feel terrible about. Christ I do have compassion, I just don't know how to begin with her. She was saying that three seperate men came up to tell her she'd be ok and they were all named Steven, so she assumes they were angels. Well naturally.

Ultimately, she will be sleeping well tonight while I write about her but wonder why I can't seem to enjoy her.

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