You.
Yeah, you.
Go ahead and pretend to be absorbed in your book. I can tell it's a romance novel by the lack of cover and the way you are careful to cover the spine with your hand, offering no one the opportunity to reflect on your crap taste in literature.
We both know you just rudely shoved past me and stole the last open seat on the entire train during rush hour. We both know I was waiting to board first. We both know I had unspoken dibs on that seat. We both know I'm the one carrying five bags while you're not even carrying a purse.
It's okay. You can try to ignore me while I melt your face with these concentrated laserbeams of spite coming from my eyes. Sit there and shift uncomfortably in your (my) seat and just try to shrug off the guilt of knowing you're a selfish wench.
Since I can't have my seat, I'll just go ahead and hang onto the railing directly overhead so that my bags sway precariously close to your face. Also, that smell? I may or may not be releasing a little pent up frustration via my asshole. That's right I just farted. In your face.
I notice you've made it through six pages already in the minute and a half I've been standing here. Now, either you've come to the, ahem--climax--of your little sex novel, and you are really enjoying it, or you're having an epiphany about your own douchebagness and can't focus on what you're reading. Nah...it may just be the sting of Catholic guilt I'm burning into you with my mind.
Only 12 more stops to go before my exit. Are you sure you can handle it?
