Public Nail Clipping/Filing

Dear jerks who file/clip their nails on public transit,

Gross. Please return back to the hole you’ve managed to crawl out of.

Love,

Allergic to you. xo

I do not want to:

a) Inhale your nail dust after you aimlessly blow it in my direction,

b) Pick your random nail pieces off my coat,

c) Become violent due to above circumstances (acts of violence include but are not limited to, elbow jabs, foot stomps, laser death glares, and on occasion, projectile vomit).

Let’s try a little exercise, shall we?

Washroom:

Wow. Crazy, right?

Subway:

Got it?

One more time…

Washroom:

Subway:

Alright then. Now that we’ve completed major brain surgery, let’s review the general rule:

Washroom activities stay in the w.a.s.h.r.o.o.m.

Please feel free to direct those who do not follow this general rule of consideration to this site or similar ones that may help them understand how to be human.

Moron #460,336

Dear Moron #460,336,

Next time you laugh hysterically at the fact that the bus driver won’t let me on the fifth bus that has passed because it’s too damn full of your hipster teenage dropout buddies, I will not hesitate to do a jigg on your foot with my impressively sharp teacher-like heels. True story.

Love,

Allergic to you. xo

– Over and out –

 

Nose Pickers

Dear Nose Pickers,

This is a bathroom activity. Please keep it that way so as I don’t come in contact with your bodily excrements.

Love,

Allergic to you. xo

The fact that I even have to write this offends me.

I mean, come on now, people.  I get the occasional trying-to-be-subtle-scratch-the-side-of-the-nose type thing.  We’ve all done it.  But here I’m talking about full-out, digging a hole to China… and on the subway to boot.

Not only did this guy reach so far up I could barely see his knuckle, he proceeded to wipe his new found treasure all over the pole.

You: And let me guess, you put your hand all over it?

Me: Are you insane? You better believe I watch these fellow transit riders like a hawk and if I would have touched that slime covered pole I probably would have caused a scene that may have prompted something like this:  “Riders of the Yonge/University line, the train has been delayed due to a crazy girl who lost her shit on some random nose picker. Location and status of nose picker unknown. ETA unknown. Steer clear of her if you know what’s good for you.  Sorry for the inconvience.”

You: Wow. That’s some serious aggression.

Me: As if you’re not aware of my many talents by now.

You: I’m not sure I’d call that a talent…

Me: Is that because you also partake in the public pick? You don’t fool me.

You: Hey!! I never…

Moving on…

In conclusion, next time think twice before you pick away like the champion you are and  wipe your bodily fluids all over a publicly accessible pole.  Consider yourself lucky if all you get is a swift elbow jab.

PDE (via public transit)

Dear Public Transit Riders,

Smelling, watching and listening to you eat makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

*Slap!*

Love,

Allergic to you. xo

So, let’s start from the beginning.

PDE:  Public Displays of Eating.

You: Geez, people need to eat, you know.

Me: Thanks for clearing that up. You didn’t let me finish…

I’m aware that people need to eat.  It just so happens that I am included in that group.  Who knew?

Now here comes the ‘but’…

BUT:

a) There’s a reason some meals are meant to be consumed at this thing they invented a while back.  Hmmm… whadducallit?  A table? Right.  This way, all of that mess that is currently all over your face, shirt and pants, would fall back nicely into place onto your plate and/or table.  I know it’s a hard concept to grasp, but I’m pretty sure you can get there eventually.  Good luck.

b) I’d prefer (as I’m sure some of my fellow transit riders would agree) not to see the contents of what is in your mouth. Didn’t your mommy teach you manners?

c) Some time ago there was a study that found our transit system to be more contaminated than a public toilet. That being said, I would never eat on it, but hey, that’s just me.  On top of that (I’m sure I’ve mentioned this one, two, three, or fifty times already), I would never eat a chip, touch the pole, eat a chip, lick my fingers, touch the pole, eat a chip, lick my fingers, touch the pole. Watching this offends me on so many levels, I sometimes have to talk myself out of projectile vomitting.  Do you know how many people touch that pole on a daily basis?  Do you seriously believe that pole is cleaned daily? Would you rather just lick the pole, or hey, might as well lick a public toliet seat because according to the study, you’re probably better off.

You: You’ve really thought this through.

Me: Thank-you captain obvious.

So, to summarize, if you find yourself participating in any of the above, don’t be surpised if random chunks of vomit fly your way, courtesty of yours truly.

Over and out.

Hair Pullers

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.

*Slap!*

Seriously.

Love,

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. 

Pain.

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

*Sigh*

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.

*Slap!*

Love,

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.

Headphones

Dear Guy on the Subway who Doesn’t Believe in Headphones,

Seriously? There’s a reason headphones where invented, and that reason is you.

Love,

Allergic to you. xo

So there I am, minding my own business on the subway, sandwiched in between a suit, the pole, and dude who won’t stop leaning on me.  Suddenly, I hear very bad, very loud music blasted from amongst the city slickers. Heads pop up, eyes wander and try to find the asshole that’s blasting crumby music. I wondered how I could still hear it with my own ipod blasting in my ears. Finally, I realized it was coming from dude who won’t stop leaning on me.  Some Prada wearing business lady asked him politely to turn it down.

Dude: It doesn’t turn down.

Prada: Then turn it off.

Dude: It doesn’t turn off. And this shit is better than anything you would ever listen to anyways.

Well, that could definitely be the case, but needless to say, I felt it was time to insert a swift elbow jab.  Unfortunately, dude who wouldn’t stop leaning on me who doesn’t believe in headphones and consequently smells of a fabulous mix of urine and alcohol was so engulfed in his shitty music that he didn’t even notice my swift elbow jab.  This disappointed me greatly, as I only pull out the jab on special occasions. By this point, the entire train looked offended and annoyed, as he announced in his best slurred voice:

Dude: Mmmhow bouts mmsome classic rock, right? Cuz mmmthats mmsome good tunes. Mmmyou can’t mmgo wrong with classic rock.

Too bad his idea of classic rock was actually Nickelback.

This offends me on so many levels and that doesn’t include that fact that the thought of Nickelback alone gives me the urge to projectile vomit. And if you don’t know who Nickelback is, then you are one lucky bastard. Keep it that way, seriously. And if you know who they are and you like them, well, I’ll speak to the positive and say, maybe there’s still help for you yet.

You: Whatever. Everyone has different tastes in music.

Me: I wouldn’t consider that ‘music’.

You: So your opinion trumps everyone elses?

Me: Now you’re catching on. Gold star.