Sometimes in the morning, I hate you. I also hate brushing my teeth; I hate figuring out what shirt to wear; I hate everything. However, what I hate most of all are the fucking commuters that ride the train with me. When I get to the train station, oftentimes the platform is virtually empty, with the exception of a handful of bleary eyed, quiet travelers staring into the void of the train tunnel. Then, as soon as we can see that red speck of light, that beacon of hope off in the distance that is the illuminated number on the front of a 4 or 5 train, the goddamn 2 train screeches to a halt on the other side of the platform, opens its doors, and floods the concrete dock with people transferring, pushing themselves to the edge of the platform in front of me just in time for them to claim a prime spot to enter the wooshing-open doors of my Manhattan-bound express. I am then forced to stand for the next half hour holding onto a pole that no doubt was most recently touched by the guy who doesn't wash his hands after taking his morning dump or the lady who compulsively rubs her conjunctivitis-infected eye.
I hate you all. . . sometimes in the morning.