I'm just going to throw this out there -- commuting on public transportation isn't fun. On a "Peace and Zen Moments" scale of one to ten, riding a train five days a week ranks in at about holy-fucking-shit-this-sucks.
Granted, being stuck in crawling bumper to bumper traffic every day isn't a picnic either, but at least if you smell someone's asshole it will most likely be your own.
Four years into my possible life sentence of commuting, I've learned to manage some aspects of my daily trek. I can deal with the elderly women who turn into battering rams with knives for elbows when my train is called, plowing through crowds like Beserkers on crack. I barely bat an eyelash when a dude in a five thousand dollar suit transforms from mild mannered businessman to fucking Rowdy Roddy Piper in a blink of an eye and races for a track, clotheslining the elderly and children alike.
And by "dealing", I mean aggressively tweeting my impotent rage about massive delays, body odor that should be bottled and used as weapons of mass destruction and men whose breath smells like they ate roadkill for breakfast. And if I'm not tweeting it, I have a non-stop, rage-induced internal monologue going on. In my mind, riding the 5:54 is like Fight Club. Except that I wish I was the only one doing all the ass kicking.
There is one saving grace from all this insanity. Well, two, actually. 1) I have an iPod. This little device has saved me my sanity and probably a few nights in prison. 2) I can sleep virtually anywhere. I must say it's a nice combination. I plug in, nestle down, close my eyes and pretend that I'm not packed like cattle in a train heading off to a job that makes me want to climb into a Dorlean, travel back to 1995 and kick 18 year old Jenny Jerkface right in the vagina and warn her not to make stupid decisions.
But there is one type of commuter who I have no weapon against.
The Loud Talker. I might hate you and wish deleterious things to happen to you if you clip your fingernails while sitting next to me, but there is something about someone screaming into a cell phone on a quiet train that makes me positively mutinous.
These are the people who somehow think that there is a little bubble around them and that, even though they are in public, no one can hear them talk about their raging case of herpes, impending divorce, terrible kids, awesome sex, and whatever-the-fuck-else.
Which brings me to the young girl who was screaming into her cell phone at 7:30 in the morning yesterday. For forty five minutes. Anyway, she seemed eager to broadcast her life to a car full of exhausted, cranky people so I figured I'd help her go one even further and write about it on the blog. With my comments, natch.
We'll call her Talky McFuckface. Ms. Fuckface was probably in her early twenties and very excited to start her new job and, clearly, her new commute. I was just drifting off when I hear this:
HEY! (most obnoxious fucking laugh I've ever heard) I FIGURED YOU'D BE UP BRIGHT AND EARLY SO I THOUGHT I'D GIVE YOU A CALL...
This was your first mistake, Talky McFuckface. Actually actively seeking out someone who is an early bird for a chat means it's TOO FUCKING EARLY TO BE CHATTING.
OH YEAH, THE COMMUTE IS GREAT... UH HUH (insert ear bleeding laugh) YEAH, I JUST RELAX ON THE TRAIN AND SPEND THE TIME CATCHING UP WITH PEOPLE ON THE PHONE... (Dear gahd that laugh. MAKE IT STOP!!)
Your chatting days are numbered, you gangrenous twat. You're going to be doing your loud talk-y thing next to some coke-addicted stockbroker one morning and he's going to rip you an asshole so big you'll be able to shit out Mack trucks. I can't wait for this to happen.
THE NEW JOB IS REALLY CRAZY AND HECTIC BUT I'M REALLY EXCITED ABOUT THE OPPORTUNITY. I MEAN, IT'S SO HECTIC! MY DESK IS COVERED WITH POST-ITS AND PAPERS AND EVERYTHING...
1)You're excited about the opportunity because you're young and just got out of college and think work is fun. It's not. Your soul just hasn't been raped by corporate bullshit yet. Give it time. 2) What the fuck did you think your desk was going to covered with? Skittles and cat shit?? Eat a bowl of dicks. Maybe if your mouth is full of cock and ball you would actually shut up.
BLAH, BLAH, MY BOSS BLAH (she laughs again. I begin to picture killing her). BLAH FUNDRAISERS BLAH BLAH...
shutthefuckuptshutthefuckupshutthefuckupshutthefuckuptshutthefuckupshutthefuckup. Jeezus crispies, I'm wearing noise canceling headphones and I can here ALL about your meeting prep responsibilities. Hey, Talky McFuckface did you hear that? Could you hear that "shhhh" over your loud mouth? It's the sound of someone shushing you. Pay attention!!
SO, HOW'S THE OLD OFFICE??
OH MAH GAHD. Whoa. You're not even talking to a friend?? You're talking to an ex-coworker? Are you fucking serious? Really? I officially hate you. You're bullshitting just to bullshit and RUINING my chance to dream about shagging Robert Pattinson.
It was at this point that I finally cracked an eye open and decided to take decisive action. Before I could turn around and offer to shut her up myself, the train pulled into Newark and Talky McFuckace was all, "OOOH! I'M AT MY STATION! TALK SOON! KISSES!"
Kisses, eh? I'll give you something to kiss, you chatty donkey snatch.
As she walked toward the exit, I heard the man next to me sigh and mutter, "thank God."
As some dude took Talky McFuckface's seat, I closed my eyes, hoping I would get maybe twenty minutes of shut-eye before we hit New York.
YO, BRO! WHASSSSSS UP!!!
Apparently not. I guess I'll have to dream about RPattz some other day.