Pike Place reflections

Time passes funny here at work. See. That's such an odd sentence but there's no other way I can describe it. I get in a flow, feel sorta robotic sometimes but am never really bored because the influx of people and their natural color of skin,
Clothes, hair, or attitude excites and tickles me. It's so fun to fuck with people. In the best way possible. It's lovely just enjoying people's company and having people return for more. It's a fun gig. I hope I don't get tired of it but I fear I will. It's like Dostoevsky, though, right? One time he said to me: "human beings can get used to anything" and frankl later added ..."just don't ask us HOW." I'm not working at the holocaust so I imagine my process of HOW I get used to this part of my life will be a lot more humane than frankls. It's like I'm developing immediate, brief, pockets of friendship with these customers. Little blurbs or quotations of "hello's" and "goodbye's" or what have you. Ultimately, I'm a crook because I'm only being nice to them because I'm being paid, right? Or am I a good person. I don't think it really matters. I'm surrounded by so many judgemental people, at school, it seems. It's just the nature of art school I suppose: we critique each other often and always and it bleeds over into our social atmosphere and people think their perceptions of people are the golden truth but, in any event, that's totally just my perception. It's cool being at the market. It's a bevy of humanity. Like the pasta I sell: so many flavors. It's sunny on this break. A nice breeze. Sound of people chatting, a plane riding above me, crows flying, music faintly playing in four distant directions. Someone yelling "go to the noodle stand" gets me excited to meet them. The smell of ash, cigarettes, dingy, old but not sad. Weathered, used, antiqued.