Train Songs 3c (3 of 3)

DEAR CTA: (concluded)

Look, it's been almost twelve years and yet I still don't feel that you are truly committed to me. I've overlooked fare hikes, and intermittent service, to make this work. Let’s make this official already!

But, no. You can’t commit to anything or anyone.

Sadly, I will still be seeing you around, you've really given me no other option. But the love is gone, and I am not going to pretend anymore. We're just friends, actually, more like acquaintances.

I wish I were financially independent, so I could break out of this abusive cycle you've trapped me in. Leave you, get my own private driver, someone at my beck and call, anytime I need. Oh, but I would be nice. You've taught me how to hurt, but I am bigger than that.

Another thing: Joint custody on Chicago, right? I’m not asking Chicago to get in the middle of this. So be cool about this, okay?

By the way, I want my records back.

Train Songs 3b (2 of 3)

DEAR CTA: (continued)

Sure, we've had ups and downs. Who hasn't? Remember that summer that you kept telling me, in your words, to, "Take it"? I have to admit, I really felt that. I dug it, and it was kind of hot. But that wasn't enough for you. Oh, no, pretty soon, it was all, "Take it everywhere..." Excuse me? I am not the sort, honey. Save that shit for the tourists.

Speaking of, I'm also not really happy with this supposed open relationship. You've got who and how many knows riding you all hours of the day and night. Meanwhile, what options do I have? I know you resent whenever I take a cab. But you have to take care of yourself sometimes, right? Lord knows that you're not always there when I need you. And then, when it feels like I've been waiting on you forever, you're all up in my grill. Needy much?

And clean yourself up, for god sakes. You fucking stink already.

Train Songs 3a (1 of 3)

DEAR CTA, WITH SLIGHTLY BITTERSWEET SENTIMENTS:

Well, we started out pretty hot, after all it was August. But, I'm sorry, it's over, and there's nothing you can say or do that will change things.

When my friend, Chicago, introduced us, I said, "Yes, somebody that gets me." And so big, to boot. The novelty wore off, but I stuck it out. I've put up with your kinky fascination, should I say, obsession, with your size and service. Cut backs? Expansions? Reconstruction? You've had more work than the cast of Desperate Housewives... and you're planning more? I'm sorry, it's gotten old. So old.

Speaking of, thought about the age difference lately? Let's just say that eighty plus years is quite the May-December thing, eh? I've never been ashamed to be seen with you. And people aren't talking, but late at night, thoughts drift into my head. How old are you, really? And despite the work, you're losing your luster. Not be shallow, but you look terrible most days.

13 Films That Ruined Dating 1

SAY ANYTHING

Chuck Klosterman has beat this one to death, so I'm going to hit it and quit, and quick. (Because he's totally correct.)

Every girl I grew up with wanted Lloyd Dobbler in her life. I, sir, am no Llyod Dobbler. I have slacker 'tude, which manifests best in the "all I wanna do is hang out with your daughter"-ness of Lloyd. I can do that. And there have been women that make me want to do the Boom-Box Stance until my arms fall off, but in real life, it would be creepy and stalkerish and annoying.

Women don't get that. (Not all women, of course, but the ones I seem to date.) Every grand gesture that makes Say Anything so movie-magic wonderful would scare the crap out of someone in real life. The closest the movie comes to a real relationship-ness is when Lloyd tells Joe to stop fucking with Corey's head. And Joe says he can't help it, because of her talent.

That's real.

Homelife 2

IN WHICH I MAKE A NARROW ESCAPE. OR SO I THINK.

And, of course, that was my most faithful pen.

Leaving the pen behind, when the train doors open, I sprint from my seat. Just narrowly missing knocking down an old woman in a balaclava topped with a tricolored pom-pom, I perform a daring three quarter roll and begin, on hands and knees for nothing must be simple, to scurry toward the escalator. Things will escalate, oh yes, they will escalate indeed.

Careful not to catch fingers in the tines of the escalator stairs, I climb, rodent-style, pushing my way past confused commuters. Ah-ha! You’ve gotten more than the latte you bargained for, I chuckled to myself.

Resuming an upright posture, I walk coolly and calmly to the exit turnstile, to the upper levels of the busy city street. To freedom.

I callously light a full-flavored menthol cigarette, confident that my murder has gone un-avenged. And that’s when I see her across the street: the old woman.

Homelife 1

IN WHICH I SIT NEXT TO THE MOST BORING MAN ON THE PLANET

He won't stop talking. He's on the phone with the post office. His mail was not delivered. I couldn't care less. Who could? But he drones on, and on, and on.

It's enough to make you wish you had been late to work. To be on any other train in the world. But, you are stuck on this one, with seventy other people. With the most boring man on the planet.

Even his problem is boring: his mail was not delivered. How often does that happen? All. The. Time. Deal with it.

Is he waiting for a check? Are there babies that will starve because of this? Is there a dog, a pug, poodle, that will starve? I don't think so, really. This man just likes to drone. To invite people outside his plight to get involved. Even just vocally.

I stab him in the neck with a ball-point pen. It feels so satisfying.

Mark Twain: Jackass 4

GRABBING AN EMPTY BOTTLE (severely loathe to waste drinkable spirits), Mark Twain smashed said bottle across the standing bar. Mark Twain then brazenly and brutally slashed poor Edgar Bonney along the cheek and temple.

Taking Miss Delaray forcibly by the arm, Mark Twain roughly lead her to one of Long Tom’s many private rooms.

Therein, Mark Twain violated Miss Delaray in a manner and style forever known by Mark Twain, and Mark Twain’s bragging companions, as “Muddying the Ole Mississip.” Though not entirely unpleasant for Miss Delaray, there wasn't preformed even a gentleman’s reach around or even monetary compensation. Miss Delaray limped home the next morn, a proverbial two dollar whore, for Mark Twain was both fierce and endowed.

When next Mark Twain encountered a quite bandaged and humbled Edgar Bonney, Mark Twain further humiliated him through savage and unrelenting epithets, calling him “limp sausage hanger,” “gaseous toad sucker,” and “prissy little bitch.”

This is your folk hero and literary legacy, America. This is your Mark Twain.