Commuter Hell

I'm pretty sure that the high gas prices have forced every asshole off the road and onto my subway train in the morning.


That douche that used to cut me off even though there was no one behind me and he turned left after 2 seconds anyways and had to slam on the brakes to make his turn and cause me to almost hit him? I'm pretty positive it was him who physically pushed me out of the way this morning to get onto the train before me. The asshole woman who rode my ass every morning from 8.37 to 8.52 even though it was bumper to bumper and there was no way for me to go more than 15km/h without ramming the car in front of me? It was almost definitely her who was all up in my grill as I entered the subway car and nearly pushed me over in her hurry to get in and go nowhere. The uppity bitch in her black Mercedes with tinted windows who won't let you over no matter how long your signal has been on or how close you inch towards her? She was definitely the one blocking my access to the pole I need to hang on to for dear life everytime the subway lurches forwards or hurtles to a stop. She was also the one who shot me the death stare when I fell into her after our train slammed on its brakes and I lost my balance due to not having anything to steady me, anything being maybe like you know a pole.

I can't speak for everyone (read: anyone?) but I personally try to make my morning and evening commutes as civilized and courteous as possible. I enter a subway car and I move in as far as possible, trying to maximize space so that everyone can get on and we can all get home as fast as possible and take off our pants and eat some cheese (okay so maybe I am just speaking for myself here). I look right & left, front & back to make sure that my elbow isn't sticking into someone's side, my hair isn't in someone's mouth, and my bootay all up in someone's nether-area. I place large objects like my backpack (or the shotgun I plan to bring with me very soon unless something changes or I go on valium so I no longer have to feel feelings) at my feet so it isn't obstructing other passengers. I exit the train to allow other people off. I give my seat to the elderly or the pregnant teenagers. I am a good freaking subway rider.

But, and I promise this before all of The Internet, if one more person pushes me onto the train, refuses to move in just a little more so I can press myself between the sea of bodies and the flimsy plastic doors that are the only things that seperate me from this pathetic commute and certain death, or forces me to cling to the 2 inch area of spare pole that exists only under their armpit because they are reading the paper and absolutely must have that 3 feet of personal space around them in order to do so, I am going to have to get drastic.

You hear that commuters in Toronto? You better start being nice to me or else I promise to do the following without fail every fucking morning and every fucking evening until you change your nasty ways:

1. What's that sound? Oh, it's just me blasting my 90s techno music from Dance Mixes 1991 through 1994 at top volume on my Ipod.

2. What's that violently thumping you in the back everytime the train moves the slightest bit? It's my backpack. My backpack full of bricks and assorted other pointy things.

3. What's that smell? Sorry but I absolutely had to bring along my fine homeless friend Petey here. It's almost Christmas after all and the guy just needed a comfy place to relax and set down his giant bags full of recyclables for a bit. Don't mind him, he'll just lie across these three seats during rush hour so the train is even more crammed. You can probably just ignore his rants about the Commies and tin foil, too.

4. What's that look for? Don't even try to touch any part of my body with any part of your body or I will give you a kind of stink eye that you only thought possible in your nightmares.

5. What's that taking up the extra seat? It's my purse. And no you can't move it grandpa so I guess you're just going to have to ajust your crutches so that you get more comfortable. It's only a broken hip and my purse is Louis fucking Vuitton after all.

6. What's that disease? I don't know, but you best believe that I'm going to cough right in your face and wipe my snotty nose with my hand and then place it squarely back on the pole aka bacteria breeding ground so that you get what I get next week, just in time for your big presentation and conference call that can't be rescheduled.

7. What's that wailing? Don't worry, it's just my (borrowed, thank god) set of quadruplets. Aren't they sweet? And thank you so much for squishing yourself into that corner over there so I can fit in my giant-sized Jeep stroller with the extra thick wheels and Hummer-grade shocks (did you know that if I really wanted to I could push this stroller through the frozen tundra? I mean, I'm not going to or anything, but it's nice to know that I have that option). Oh? They spilled their sippy cups full of grape juice all over your brand-new off-white Banana Republic cashmere sweater? I'd apologize and offer to pick up the dry cleaning bill but really? That sweater looked like shit on you anyways.

I have a few more sinister promises up my sleeve, but I think it's best to save some surprises for later (I don't want to ruin it, but let's just say that there may be monkeys and the ebola virus involved somehow! But try to contain yourselves until the big reveal, okay??!).

God, it's great to be back to work!