Oprah Loves The Word "Intuition"

(L) ove Commuting

Fine. So I will start by complaining because that is what this Me Time is for. Right?

I live by the L train. This is the train I take to work every day.  Sometimes my commute is so bad that I spend most of the time sweating and then contemplating how to combat the oil that will resonate in my pores for the majority of the afternoon. 

Sometimes the commute is so bad that I feel the annoying red-haired girl's hair hit my arm that is stretched to the umpteenth degree toward the nearest pole so that I won't fall over and get stabbed by the angry thug behind me on the way to work. Sometimes my commute is so bad because I'm carrying so many things and I hold my possessions in front of me to be nice (most people have no problem shoving their man bag into you rectal bone which could make a hypo like me think I've slipped a disc before completing my first cup of coffee).

I wind up feeling on bad commute days that I have been slung up on the cross like Jesus before I have even had the joy of reading Perez or applying hand sanitizer at my desk while my AIM loads with a smile and a comforting "AIM" welcome sound.

Usually, these negative commuting experiences do not stick in one's mind because the geniuses that run the MTA know that if we had the experiences TOO often, we would be more likely to complain and then they would have to go on strike and start complaining about how hard it is to be an MTA worker in New York City.  The particular geniuses that are in control of my beloved L train, space out their nightmarish applications of commute' in logical "I can't remember the last time this happened" intervals. 

Well, color me a fool no more! I remember!

Today I waited for four L trains before there was enough room to get on.  Today the entire subway station was filled with angry twenty somethings thinking the same thing that I thought. I hate the mother fucking L train.

Each time a train would come 10 or so of these angry commuters would huddle around each doorway in an attempt to shove the ugly bitches already inside a few more inches so they could get their own duffel bagged, purse wearing asses inside too.  On train number four, I was successful.  The problem is on bad commute days, that even when you're successful in getting INside the train, there is the whole "Fuck, I have 4 more stops to go before we hit Union Square and the train vomits out all these assholes."

Today, on the ultimate of bad commute days, I should have anticipated the next logical step in my MTA sponsored journey to work.   We would wait.  And wait. And wait. While all the "train traffic"ahead (i.e. other twenty somethings shoving other fat bitches deeper inside the train cars at other stops) was getting sorted, I had the extreme pleasure of being shoved next to someone who smelled like your toilet paper before you drop it into the water, and a girl behind me who had more eye boogers than Stevie Wonder.

So what's my point? As you'll soon find.  I don't have one.

LV13?

Well, I've officially made the mistake of believing the sign on North 5th Street.  I saw that shit and was like, oh damn! a forty dollar massage! - my ass is there.  I walked by the joint the other night and it looks like a happy ending massage parlor in a space no bigger than my hall closet. Whatevs I'll let a geisha rub me down.  In fact, I'm all about it.  I will post a review post my potential happy ending.