Train post #1

I am on a train that is like an ice box. It's a rarity that the temperature of a train is desirable. The train Shoggoth smiles upon me. . .

This is a Shoggoth I found on Wikipedia.

Of course, there must be an equal and opposite reaction.

There is a giant, anime baby Huey mother fucker standing next to me. He looks like The Dude and Yokozuna had a baby. His super power is the ability to take a bath in cooking oil and leave unscathed. His facial hair looks like it was fashioned by a blind person. Hell, I doubt he's looked in a mirror recently.

here's The Dude and a Yokozuna

He prefers to stare at me, or at least I think he's staring. It's hard to tell as his eyes are in the ever-expansive purgatory of "not open, but not closed". What I do know is that his breathing is definitely directed my way.

Although, in a strange way, I envy this man. The level with which he gives no fucks is astounding. This man probably floats through life reeking of food, dressing like a hobo, buying expensive electronics, not talking to anyone, doing really hard drugs in a relatively non- destructive manner, constantly flip flopping between being asleep and awake. There is no way that his brain, riddled with insanity, can give a shit about anything. He is a motley fool.

Of course, that was just the R train.

Now, I move to the D train. Oh, dear D train. The harbinger of the fastest ride to Manhattan combined with a crowd that looks like a Hasidic-Chinese Joel Osteen is about to give a sermon through their phone screens and newspapers.

The D train

The first person I encounter is asleep. And I mean ASLEEP. This woman's head is leaning off the wall behind her, ready to rest on the subway door. Her mouth is wide open, like she was a 4 year old ready to receive her first holy communion. There is an EPIC pimple on her forehead. If you were to look at it through a super microscope, you would see a village of nanites worshipping it's inevitable explosion. They have sacrificed one of their own in honor of its towering puss sepulcher. Poor Carl.

She keeps hitting my wallet in my side pocket with her head. That's not the problem. The problem is with each successive head butt, the unholy pimple inches closer and closer to my wallet.

I have smelled pure feces on a train. I've dodged a trail of urine cascading towards me on a train ride. I've seen someone explosively vomit on an N train at 2 AM. I've remained calm and collected during each incident.

If this pimple explodes on my pants I may  just throw up everywhere. I move. Fast. And then she drools where my shoe used to be. 

I survive another train ride. The scars remain etched on my soul forever. I become more in sync with the shared PTSD of being a New Yorker.

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