Last night waiting for the red line to Glenmont, I sat down on a bench. Immediately, the man next to me immediately stands and walks away. He leans against a advertisement.
And vomits.
Gross. Gross. I do not want this man on my train. Gross. Gross.
This is not the New York Subway, you are in my space and you are puking on a platform. You are nasty.
Today, the woman who sat next to me on the red line toward Shady Grove filed her nails. This isn't as gross as the first, but still, lady, I do not want to breathe in your nail dust.
I had my iPod on loud enough to hear over all the sounds of the Metro, when I hear a loud, juicy fart from the filing nail lady.
I want a peaceful commute. I do not want stories from my commute. I do not want my commute to be memorable. I want to zone out listening to music. I do not want to think about your personal hygiene, dietary or alcohol habits.
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