people say she’s crazy…

In general, think people fart less on the MTA than on the CTA, but they smell funnier.  I really haven’t witnessed many MTA farts, but I have sat next to some seriously creative-smelling people on the subway.  In Chicago, the worst I got was this guy who rode my bus everyday and had pretty stinky b.o., like where if you were standing next to or sitting in front of him, you’d be inconvenienced.  On the MTA, I have breathed into my sleeve on more than one occasion just to survive till the next stop.  At work, one of the maintenance guys has what my boss thinks is some kind of medical problem that causes inconceivable b.o., like to the point where if he has to come in to empty our trash during the day, you can’t breathe in the office for ten minutes after he’s left.  You can smell him in the hallway for many, many minutes after he’s gone.  It’s really a shame.  I’m just glad he doesn’t take my train.

All New Yorkers (self included) should all play less pong/brickbreaker/solitaire on our blackberries/ipods and read more books, or at least the newspaper.  Time Out New York is not a book.  Vanity Fair (um, the magazine) might be.  AM New York is not the newspaper (sorry).

Okay, sometimes? I stare at people. Is that okay? It’s kind of inadvertent. Because if you’re wearing navy jeans and a pink polo shirt with matching pink eyeshadow, I can’t look away, I physically can’t.  Also,  I ogle engagement rings and purses, because I am a girl and because knockoffs are awesome and I love people who carry them with pride. Which begs the question: do people stare at me?  Thinking things like Are those bunnies on her bag? or Would it have killed her to put on just a little makeup this morning before she got to work, because I don’t like commuting with the undead? or possibly even Is she listening to show tunes? Turn that shit down, nobody wants to sing about Leo Frank before noon.  Because these are the things I think about myself on the train.  Also, in the mornings. I constantly wonder whether my yogurt has burst open in my bag.  This has never happened to me.  Hello, I am crazy.

Why aren’t all train rides like the Metra rides back to Evanston after Ben Folds concerts? I want to sing.

THE POLE IS NOT YOUR BOYFRIEND, SO BACK OFF.  And if the pole is your boyfriend, I am not sorry for the firm grip I am about to assume on it and the fact that I might brush up against it as I exit the train.

MTA should, like hospitals, dispense hand sanitizer.  Not that someone wouldn’t turn it into meth or anything, but really… why not?  Can’t someone donate it?  Bill & Melinda?  Eradicate disease on this island!