Commuting

I have a very painful hangnail.

When I put on my motorcycle helmet this morning, there was a spider crawling on the windscreen. I had already put it on and didn’t notice it until then. I did not scream like a little girl, I screamed like a man. A man who screams like a little girl.

I like to honk at forty-something-year-old men in BMWs when it’s raining. I enjoy watching them struggle to reach their arm out through the small crack of their driver’s-side window in order to flip me off while getting as little rain inside of their car as possible.

The woman with the Beanie Babies filling the rear window of her car seems more concerned with her stuffed animal collection than she is with the condition of the paint on her 2002 Toyota Corolla. The faded paint resembles a geriatric hospice patient’s liver spots.

The man next to me on the train spread his legs wide enough to invade my personal space. I pressed my leg into his, and he didn’t move. It was uncomfortable.

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