On bus windows

On bus windows I think of things. How I would like to own a condo unit with a swimming pool where I could sweat in after two bone-breaking laps, or where I would get my Master's, or what about making a food blog (I even came up with a domain name) or how gradually I've come up to conclude that the teaching profession is probably not for me. It's the kind of stuff that drives you crazy every night, before dozing off. Last night a young man still in college was doing missionary work for his church, and was panhandling with a microphone, handing out envelopes with colored prints, all these he brought himself. Surprisingly, people are taking him seriously. How can you ask people to take you seriously? I think my sole purpose in life is to be taken seriously, to quit having fun around people and decide on whether this or that matters, like debate. If there should be a fifteen minute of fame in the entire world, each presentation should be taken seriously. Then I heard someone's remark on the missionary's voice, she said the missionary is eloquent he could easily get hired in a call center. Do missionaries masturbate? Can this guy be taken seriously? Two nights ago I was sitting beside this man in those modern barong tagalog, the kind of uniform bank employees wear, and in his iPhone he was flirting with not one, but two women,  interchanging them with unheard-of ease with the flick of his fingers. Or this man who talked to me for the entire ride about social media, management, and leadership: how can he take me seriously? Maybe there are two types of people: the one you can't take seriously and the one you can. It's as simple as that.