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Use this space for notes and reminders to yourself.
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Expiration date is not required, only if you want the note to magically disappear.
A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
When the guy in front of you at the staircase in the subway station sighs loudly and mutters obscenities because there is a small queue at the stairs due to the bottleneck created by the new security measures, and you think, “Exactly when the N line become the Whiny Little Bitch…
Do read Winnie-the-Pooh on the train on the way in to work in the morning.
Get in that Exact Change lane, and you can make book on there being at least one Gaping Asshole who will either have nothing but a Double Sawbuck, or who will rummage throughout the entire cabin of his or her vehicle, looking for the exact change that they almost certainly don’t have.
She sat on the train to work listening to a terrible throw-back to the early 80s and, terrible though the Nolan Sisters were, she sat in a quite perky way, bopping her head and tapping her feet happily in time to the music, trying all the time not to notice just how much she was annoying the person next to her, when she realised that she seemed to be the only vaguely happy person on the train – she just did not understand it, I mean, sure, she was not always happy herself and, yes, it was an early ‘off to work we go’ sort of train and, yes, this didn’t exactly thrill her to her toes, but surely amongst this multitude of people there was one other person in existence that felt just a glimmer of happiness or good cheer, I mean, just look at them, with their mobile phones, their books, their Gameboys, their iPods, their well-fed and well-clothed bodies, their ‘better lives’, surely just this material wealth alone would lend them to sniggering or sneering in some sort of a “I’ve got more than you” way - exactly why was it that they seemed to be so utterly, entirely, exclusively, without exception, wretchedly miserable, was the end of the world nigh and she’d missed it in the news or was it more personal than that and maybe she was dying and everyone on the train knew that and no-one was willing to tell her, but that couldn’t be true, I mean how would they even know, it’s not like she had it tattooed on her forehead, or maybe that was it, maybe it was something physical, maybe there was something wrong with her, maybe that saying about bliss (how did that go, was it something like blissfully unaware or, no, that’s it “ignorance is bliss”), that was it, the only possible way that she could be sitting here as happy as a bear with his head stuck in a pot of honey, would be because she didn’t know what it was that was causing all this misery in everyone else, there was some ‘big thing’ that she was totally unaware of and that’s why, every morning, day after day, week after week, people sat around her looking almost suicidal; because they knew the ‘big thing’ and she didn’t, I mean, let’s face it they were probably all secretly laughing at her for being so naive and so unbelievably, pathetically cheerful, god they probably hated her, all of them, everyone on the train, sitting there, looking at her and thinking to themselves “hah, of course she’s happy, she doesn’t know, it’s easy to be happy when you don’t even know”; but the thing is, how would she find out and, more importantly, did she want to find out, I mean, if ignorance is bliss, why break it, why try fix something that doesn’t need breaking- no wonder they all hated her, god, she was miserable.
The crowd of commuters approached the turnstiles, tickets ready in hand, brains on automatic, and then the first one bounced back and swore, then the second, then another, until suddenly there were hundreds of bouncing humans attempting to go through to the gates of hell.
As a crowd of commuters closed in around Bronwyn’s seat, she glanced at the doorway, where 30 frantic, late-for-work, quick-to-anger people were trying to squeeze into a space that could comfortably fit four, six at maximum, and thought, this is the price that must be paid for the Heather Garden at Fort Tryon Park, 24-hour Ukrainian coffee shops, the Ladies’ Mile architecture, fresh watercress at every corner market, that neighborhood in Queens where you can buy a freshly-made arepa and a French pastry within ten feet of each other, and the chance to bump into Adrien Brody in a bar on St. Patrick’s Day.
As the commuter train passed, Alec wondered whether the little girl in the window was waving hello or waving goodbye.
“While I would agree with you that berating other passengers and behaving in a generally abusive and irritating manner certainly does not warrant such a violent response on my part”, said Miss Jane as she paused to wipe the lumps from her bat, “I would have to say that it is unfortunate for you that I am not generally considered to be a reasonable person in these matters.”
As the young woman picked up her daughter and put her on her lap to allow Boot a seat on the over-crowded train, Boot thought “how lovely, I just hope it isn’t because I look old”.
Miss Jane found she needed, rather impolitely, to raise her voice to be heard by the woman dangling outside the open doors, “I think it is just possible you may not be aware that at 6.30 in the morning many of your fellow commuters prefer to sleep a little, rather than listen to your raucous, vulgar and, above all, loud commentary,” and as she rattled the woman slightly, she added “so, may I drop you off somewhere?”
The woman so intently focused on her book, ‘The history of the world, pt 1’, didn’t realise that her process of reading and ripping each page out as she was done was attracting the horrified attention of her fellow commuters.
Lonely, happy, depressed, hopeful, angry, fatalistic? - the Commute does not care how you are feeling today; the Commute pauses for nothing except fender benders along the berm.
The woman sniffed and sneezed in the corner of the train, trying not draw the attention of other commuters, but in his head D.I. Garam already had her spotted, bagged and dusted.
Coming home on the train I gave up my book and listened to the random snatches of conversation around me; “but we saw YOUR PARENTS the other weekend and haven’t spent time with mine” - from the girl with the eyebrows that seemed to be drawn downward in a perpetual frown, her full lips also giving into gravity - or put on upside down - making her look like someone who’d be difficult to live with; the young guy debating his tattoo, “of course, when in court, I’d have to have it fully covered” - I believe he was on the side of the law; and finally the chatter from the generic gossip girls (or the “‘like’ n’ thong brigade”) wondering whether they should go all the way, exchanging gossip on their BBF’s and admiring one another’s makeup.
If I’m reading a book you can certainly take this to mean “please leave me alone, I’m happy in my world of words” and definitely not to mean “ah, yes, I’m only holding this book in front of me as an easy way for you to introduce yourself and start up a happy little chat with ‘good book is it?’”
One of the things the chief enjoyed about his new job was that he could climb into the shower at home 20 minutes before he was supposed to be at work, get out, take his time getting dressed, write a Scrine sentence, and still make it to work 10 minutes early.
The commuter eyebrow - a mere hint of a raise, from one commuter to another - conveys so much and so many complex notions, that I feel it should be considered an entire dialect on its own.
Dudes, I’m scrining on the train!
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