perfect day...

ahhhhhh, almost there. the eyes are heavy and the guy that just sat down next to me doesn't seem to be much of a bother. back to my nap. what the hell is that? great! little guy has a paper. i'm so tired. maybe if i do the fake itch scratch i can passively send the message. great. works. wait, he turns the page and it starts all over again. you know, the bastard learned how to fold the ny times in the 4th grade, this guys old enough to know this. why does this have to happen with assholes and their newspapers. and why is it that this always happens to me when said reader is reading the fucking sports page? i never understood that. just fate i guess. i grab a corner and tug.

"sorry"

"thank you"

innevitably, it keeps on happening, and now i just can't sleep. on the plus side i get off in two stops. so like any other passive aggresive, i get up at my stop and swing my bag square into his chest.

"hey. could you watch where you swing your bag?"

"i could", replies the bastard. "i could also choke the life out of you."

little man who's probably heard worse looks at me incredulously and then back to his paper. you know, i've been trying to put back into the kharmic till and i guess i fell off the wagon. got out onto the street, it's a perfect day. except for that whole choking thing.

—the bastard