the bastard can't catch a break sometimes...

...or come on guys, i just want to unwind

ok. so the bastard has decided to get into a routine. lunch at one. coffee at three. treadmill at five. train at seven-ish. it lets me try and bring some regularity to my week. also answers the question of, "hey bastard, whatcha doing?" this seems to work okay. i even have the added benefit of arriving home after everyone has eaten dinner so i can unwind in silence and such. but i've grown accustomed to the frikkin railroad and now i can sleep on it. effing bonus. unwinding starts promptly at 7:05.

but not today. i decided to lollygag around and drag my feet changing back into my street clothes after the tread. hell, i even took a damn shower to boot. i was wasting time so it was no surprise that i grab the first seat i could get on the ride home. it's a 3 bench and chuckles mcgreyperm has his bag on the middle seat which is the style of how these dicks travel. i don't care. the bastard has a seat. i'm not tired so i take the rare occassion to chip aware at my copy of neil gaiman's neverwhere when i hear somebody singing. i try to ignore it. it's the kind of singing that sounds liek he has talent but since he's singing to himself he's not audible enough to understand but he's audible enough to be annoying. look pal, i'm really really glad that you're excited about jesus and all and he's done alright by my thusfar but could you either shut the hell up or could you just maybe shut the hell up.
"excuse me, can i get in there?" says a voice.

"sure, no problem" i can appreciate that you want to break greyperm's stranglehold on the middle seat so go right ahea-whoa! hey pal, did you accidentally fall into a vat of scotch or do you just bathe in it because you fucking reek. so this is my ride. i have the drone fo the guy who has enough confidence to sing in public to my right and captain scotchtastic to my immediate left. i'm sorry, i thought i was getting on the train to hempstead, not the train to the ninth concentric circle of hell. i couldn't even sleep or concentrate on the book for the smell of stale smoke and scotch sweat. oh well, there's always the basement tonight.

—the bastard