AM Commute: A woman sits behind me who smells, nay, who REEKS of perfume. The scent wasn’t bad. It would be quite nice if she had used an amount that didn’t burn my olfactory glands. I imagine that as she readied herself for work, she poured it into her hands and rubbed it all over her body, making sure to reach every nook, cranny, skin fold, orifice, possible. Less is more, sweetheart. Less. Is. More.
PM Commute: A young man boards the train shirtless. Does he look like Ryan Gosling? Channing Tatum? Raphael Nadal? No. He walked his scrawny ass onto the train. Stringy long pit hair. A few unfortunate tattoos likely acquired during a night of cheap vodka shots and cans of PBR. He gave me a head nod. I half-smiled, not wanting to be completely rude, yet not wanting to give him any indication that I was hot for his 20-something frame. When we exited the train, I saw he had a bike. Not any kind of bike, but one of those small bikes- I’m sure they have a name- that young men think make them look cool, but the reality is they look like a cheap douchebag who can’t afford an adult-sized bike, so instead they jacked one off of a third grader. Really. Getoffthemuthufuckintrainandlearntodressyourself,fool! And buy a goddamn adult sized bike. Jackass.