Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Some some some I some I murder
Dear Man at the Bottom of the Stairs on the D Train Platform at the 145th street Station This Morning-
I realize that due to the nature of the arrivals of the express trains, sometimes people take either the A or the D train, depending on which comes first. Me, I always take the D. But that’s cause I hate transferring and the D takes me exactly where I need to go, generally at a very swift pace and I can often get myself a seat by the time my train hits 59th street.
I saw you, as I was coming down the stairs this morning, debating about which platform to stand on. I knew what was going on in your head. I should have been more prepared for your sheer idiocy. However, too many things happened at once. Just as I arrived at the bottom of the stairs, a B train had just pulled in, leaving masses of people swarming the stairs. Your confusion increased. You decided you want the A right as I stepped down the last few steps- and well, it can’t be denied, you completely knocked me over. I fell, a step or two and twisted my ankle.
Sir, have you ever twisted your ankle? The pain? It’s excruciating. I’ve done this multiple times. And I generally have to sit for a spell, while I wait for the initial waves to subside and to ensure I have not broken any bones. This morning’s accident was particularly painful, as you should have assessed by the sharp cry of pain that emitted from my mouth and the tears that immediately began falling. I sat down on the steps of the subway. This is how much pain I was in. The stairs in the subway are NASTY. I shudder, even now, to think of what my ass was touching.
You asked me, “Are you okay?”
I replied, very honestly, “I don’t know.”
You proceeded to head up the stairs to the A train. I guess where you had to be was more important than assuring the safety of someone you had just seriously wounded.
Sir, I’m not going to lie to you. If I’d been a little more composed- I would have punched you in the face.
Instead. I sat on the stairs and cried a little longer. Then, I gingerly stood, testing the ankle. Then I proceed to hobble down to the end of the platform to wait for the next D train.
Now, as I sit at my desk with a rapidly swelling ankle, that is turning purple-ish, I can say, with 100% conviction: I hate you.
Have a nice fucking day, motherfucker,
Chloe
Today's Title from: Paper Planes by M.I.A.
I realize that due to the nature of the arrivals of the express trains, sometimes people take either the A or the D train, depending on which comes first. Me, I always take the D. But that’s cause I hate transferring and the D takes me exactly where I need to go, generally at a very swift pace and I can often get myself a seat by the time my train hits 59th street.
I saw you, as I was coming down the stairs this morning, debating about which platform to stand on. I knew what was going on in your head. I should have been more prepared for your sheer idiocy. However, too many things happened at once. Just as I arrived at the bottom of the stairs, a B train had just pulled in, leaving masses of people swarming the stairs. Your confusion increased. You decided you want the A right as I stepped down the last few steps- and well, it can’t be denied, you completely knocked me over. I fell, a step or two and twisted my ankle.
Sir, have you ever twisted your ankle? The pain? It’s excruciating. I’ve done this multiple times. And I generally have to sit for a spell, while I wait for the initial waves to subside and to ensure I have not broken any bones. This morning’s accident was particularly painful, as you should have assessed by the sharp cry of pain that emitted from my mouth and the tears that immediately began falling. I sat down on the steps of the subway. This is how much pain I was in. The stairs in the subway are NASTY. I shudder, even now, to think of what my ass was touching.
You asked me, “Are you okay?”
I replied, very honestly, “I don’t know.”
You proceeded to head up the stairs to the A train. I guess where you had to be was more important than assuring the safety of someone you had just seriously wounded.
Sir, I’m not going to lie to you. If I’d been a little more composed- I would have punched you in the face.
Instead. I sat on the stairs and cried a little longer. Then, I gingerly stood, testing the ankle. Then I proceed to hobble down to the end of the platform to wait for the next D train.
Now, as I sit at my desk with a rapidly swelling ankle, that is turning purple-ish, I can say, with 100% conviction: I hate you.
Have a nice fucking day, motherfucker,
Chloe
Today's Title from: Paper Planes by M.I.A.
