Tag Archives: rush hour

Teacher-like heels

10 May

Dear teacher-like heels,

You are not good for running to the bus. You are only good for face plants, and you know, that’s embarrassing in front of a bus load of people. Also, you are loud.

We’re broken up. It’s been a slice.

Maybe I should try these:

Or on second thought….


Allergic to you.xo


It’s a christmas miracle!!

8 Mar

This just in:

Man gives girl seat on subway in rush hour, girl nearly dies from shock.

Dear random man who gave me his hot commodity (that’s a subway seat, people… get your mind out of the gutter),

It’s a christmas miracle!!! Yeah, it’s a few months late, but hey, I’ll take what I can get. If you didn’t have a ring on I probably would have jumped you. Thank you for your seat and temporarily restoring my faith in humanity.


Allergic to you.xo

Hair Pullers

28 May

It can’t be helped.

As previously predicted, public transit stories are taking over this little operation. 

Dear woman who mistook my hair for the pole,

My locks are not yours to grab.




Allergic to you. xo

Last time I checked, the colour, shape, and texture of my hair was not that of subway pole likeness. 

Is it possible that sometime between my steps out of my front door and the entrance to the subway my hair magically morphed into a pole-type hologram?

Maybe so.

During the morning rush there’s not much to hold on to, and I admit, I have grabbed a random backpack once or twice for support.  But that’s because the damn things are massively huge and my grab for support also doubled as defensive move from my body getting  jabbed in the side chest stomach arm head leg ass random body part.

Hair, though? Really?

I mean, trust me, there are plently of things I’d like to grab onto but,  you know, I don’t.

You: Really. Enlighten me.

Me: Use your imagination, genius. Do I have to do everything?

Anyhoo, the train came to a halt, and Miss Grabby McGrabberton blindly reached out to the crowd. Rather than grabbing onto the pole or a backpack, she took a chunk of my hair, and gave a mighty yank to pull herself forward. 


I was too exhausted to fight back. The most I could do was shoot a death glare, but since my eyes were half closed already, it wasn’t as effective as usual.  Miss Grabby, you are extremely lucky.

Needless to say, I’ve tied my hair back for the commute home.

Pole Hoggers

26 May


Today’s topic: Pole hoggers.

Dear Mr. I’m-so-speacial-that-this-entire-pole-belongs-to-me-and-I-may-feel-the-need-to-rub-my-ass-against-it-as-I-lean,

News flash! You’re not that special.

Stop it.



Allergic to you. xo

So that pretty much explains it. Really.  I might (maybe) understand a child using the pole as a personal crutch, but a 40-something year-old man? No. Nadda. Nope.

You: Did it ever occur to you that maybe he needed the pole as support?

Me: Indeed, it did. But once I saw him balance his briefcase and coffee on his knee as he put his reading glasses back in his pocket, and then proceed to do an ass-jig against the pole to most likely scratch a persistent itch, I figured that probably was not the case.

You: Oh.

Me: *Slap!* I’m a tad violent today, just a tad.

Anyhoo, so there I am, reading my book and obviously not holding onto the pole as there was another woman beside me who needed it more.  She was struggling at best to find a place for her hand that didn’t touch the Pole Hogger, so I did my best to balance.

You: And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say that the Grinch’s small heart grew three sizes that day.

Me: And then – the true meaning of Christmas came through, and the Grinch found the strength of *ten* Grinches, plus two!

That’s right, because as soon as the train screeched in the next stop, Mr. Pole H0gger jolted forward an inch (apparently, he’s not an ass-cheek flexing gold medalist). I shoved my entire body between him and the pole (not before shooting him my famous death-ray glare) and made proper space for the woman beside me to hold it. She nodded, he scowled, and then continued to do an ass-jig to the other side of the train, where he did the exact same thing. Moron.

Me: So that calls for some good karma, right?

You: Well…

Me: *Slap!* What do you know, anyways?

You: Okay, okay. Good karma. Good karma!

Me: Better.  That’s what I thought.

Rush hour

7 May

Dear Rush Hour Public Transit,

How I loathe you so.


Allergic to you. xo

I’m sure this will be a regular topic, seeing as everyday is a struggle on this mass people mover contraption.

Today’s topic: Rush hour.

It’s so wonderful when you leave an exhausting day at work, jump on the subway, only to find yourself sandwiched in between a random armpit, fartmaster 3000, and dude with backpack.

First of all, to dude with backpack: Use you’re judgment.  If the goddamn thing is three times the size of you, you might (just maybe) think about… I don’t know, taking it off.  I mean, is it really necessary to backpack body-check each time you inhale?

Second, fartmaster 3000:  You’re not fooling anyone.  I can still tell it’s you thanks to your very obvious ‘who done it’ looks.  By the way, you should probably stay away from whatever you’re eating, because, damn, it ain’t pretty when it’s blasted out of your ass.

And last but not least, my random armpit friend:  Although the first deodorant was put on the market in 1965, it was invented in 1888.  That’s more than enough time to get on that.  For real.  And if for some bizarro world reason you choose not to use it, please, I beg of you, keep those arms down.

So to cure myself from the ‘I’m-going-to-clock-one-of-these-mofos-straight-between-the-eyes’ blues, I chose to walk off my aggression rather than face the same situation on the bus ride home, and make a pit stop to the ever so enchanting LCBO that just opened down the street from me.

You: LCBO? What the hell is that?

Me: Translation: Booze! See, here in Canada (excluding the province of Quebec, those lucky bastards) we can’t go to our neighbourhood store, gas station or supermarket to get our buzz on, seeing as complete chaos would errupt and the world as we know it would end. No one would show up to work, holigans would take over the streets, pizza and wings would be consumed in mass quantities, the market would crash, and Canada would sink into the very center of earth.  The beavers and moose would migrate to the United States and consequently be the only reminder of our tragic downfall.  So, instead, the government controls our access (to avoid the above). Isn’t it grand?

On that note, my glass is lonely.

My GlassDrink me. Love me. Indulge me.

Me: Okay. You got it.

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