Nothing ever happens to me

I've decided to start a blog--I figure everyone else is doing it, why not me? Of course, nothing ever really happens to me, so I suppose I'll either have to invent things to write about or become shamelessly self absorbed and write about my everyday boring, inured life. This, however, is a true story: When I was walking to work this morning I saw a man with a voice box (you know, one of those things that people with no vocal chords press against their throat and it makes that weird, scary computerized voice?) yelling at this pretty young thing. She was probably my age, maybe a bit younger. She had on a skirt and some black stockings and a black puffy coat. He was this middle aged, skinny Latino guy with baggy jeans and a dirty backwards Buffalo Bills hat, the kind of guy who if he leered at you on the subway, you wouldn't hesitate to change cars at the next stop. He was walking next to her, getting in her face and yelling at her in Spanish. She kept her eyes straight ahead, but it was obvious that they knew each other, that they had some kind of relationship and she was sick of it. I wondered if she was walking out on him; if she had finally gotten sick of listening to someone call her a puta in a voice that wasn't even human. Now my Spanish is far from fluent, but he was saying some pretty fucked up and mean, nasty shit to her but she kept right on walking down the street, head high and eventually he backed off, still yelling with the voice box up against his throat. It was the strangest thing.