My Soul Sucking Mother F*%$ing Commute

Remember the movie Speed? I do. Almost word for word. When I was 13, I saw it 5 times in the theatre. My obsession began partly because I could go to the theatre and see any movie I wanted to, because I looked like a 30 year old woman when I was a kid. Don't be jealous. The other part of me discovered that Keanu Reeves made me tingle in my panties and I liked it. 

Look at that face. Now that's a man. Anyone that can stay that calm when a bus filled with innocent people is exploding behind him, is straight up gangsta. (*Please note that Keanu no longer gives me wet dreams, it's Sunday, and I'm nostalgic.) 

Now that I've blossomed into the semi-miserable grown woman my parents always dreamed I'd be,  the movie Speed has taken on a whole new meaning to me. Since I have -$898472.00 in my bank account and cannot afford the luxury of my own car, I have the privilege of taking a bus everywhere with Toronto's finest assholes. I often have daydreams/waking nightmares of standing up and reciting my favourite Speed movie quotes. This week, I had an urge to channel my inner Dennis Hopper and I desperately wanted to stand up and yell,

"Pop quiz, hotshot. There's a bomb on a bus. Once the bus goes 50 miles an hour, the bomb is armed. If it drops below 50, it blows up. What do you do? What do you do?"

I of course never act on these fantasies, mostly because I fear my Dennis Hopper impersonation is straight up shitty. The other part of me fears that the general public will not enjoy my artistic expression nor find the humour in saying there is a bomb on the bus. People are so uptight. Jesus. 

Friday morning at precisely 8:09am I felt my soul being sucked from my body as I saw my bus coming toward me. If you don't commute to work through this booming metropolis of ours, then fuck you you may have a hard time understanding why I felt very 'Silence of the Lamb-ish' on the commute to my office.

Perhaps I'm PMS'ing for the 365th day in a row, or perhaps it was the unusually strong smell of fabric softener and salami which wafted up my nose during my bus ride, but today's post is an angry post. It's inspired by the dickish behaviour of my fellow public transit commuters. I dedicate this post to you. Bitches.

To the douchebag with the crazy nose hair and Celine Dion obsession, I can hear your music from your headphones over my music. We all can. Please turn it down. I would rather set myself on fire or be locked in a room with Ted Bundy than listen to Celine Dion. This post is for you...

I may not be a member of MENSA but to the woman who brings a box of Tim Horton's muffins each Friday AND LEAVES THEM ON THE FLOOR OF THE BUS...YOUR MUFFINS WILL GET STEPPED ON. Thank you for keeping idiocy alive. This post is for you...

To Lydia, the only reason I know your name is because you scream answer your phone at 8:15am each morning "THIS IS LYDIA." Please STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR SHITTY LOVE LIFE IN PUBLIC. Me, and the other assholes you're surrounded by don't give a shit what Peter does or does not give you emotionally. For me, anyone that calls me at 8am to strike up a conversation, better be James Franco trapped like in the movie '127 Hours.' So unless you're cutting your arm off with a butter knife and pissing yourself, don't call me that early. This post is for you...

Oh and to the man who has gigantism, your backpack (which you never take off), skins my nose each morning as I try and squeeze by you at my stop...Do you ever notice an ENTIRE face of makeup on your backpack? Or are you preoccupied with trying to figure out how you're going to rearrange the heads in your freezer? Stop it with the backpack and stop it with your creepiness. This post is for you...

Oh and I don't want to forget Precious who opts to sit ON MY LAP each morning when she tries to squeeze herself in the middle seat...If you have a general idea of your girth, you know where you can and cannot fit. If you're not Channing Tatum, get the fuck off my lap. This post is for you...

Lastly, I could never forget the heavy breathing ginger who NEVER has a TISSUE and chooses to rapidly sniffle for 45 minutes. You must use your sleeve to wipe your snot or visit the doctor ASAP. According to Web MD, there is a good chance you're dying. This post is for you...

Whoa. That felt good. 

I believe there was some residual commuting anger left over from a couple weeks ago when I spilt the entire contents of my purse on the bus and no one helped me pick them up. I don't know about you, but my purse is essentially just an expensive, fancy garbage bag I sport around town. I blindly shove anything and everything there. (That sounds like a night I had at a frat house in 2002. Sorry Mom!) 

If you peak inside my purse, you will find a treat for the eyes; 

• 647 pennies. All loose. 
• 18 reciepts. Mainly from Dial-A-Bottle and the crate of maxi pads I buy each month.
• 1 bottle of Dolce & Gabanna perfume in case I take a lover in the afternoon. (Hey, we've sent people to the moon, miracles happen.)
• 1 bottle of light French salad dressing that will eventually soak my entire purse. However, it is very important I carry this in case I get tagged in any Facebook photos throughout the day which immediately inspire me to eat salad and only salad until the day I die. I must be lettuce ready at all times.
• 8 business cards of people I have no intention of doing business with. Ever. 
• A small lithuanian family which I'm convinced steals all the pens in my purse. 
• Peices of paper with the words "Fuck." or "Shit" written on them. 
• 47 gum wrappers 
• 20 completely used Starbucks gift cards which I never throw out and cannot afford to refill. $76 dollars per coffee per day is reasonable, non? 
• 5 expired condoms. I will not launch into further detail on this matter. 

Well I've officially worked myself into a state of anger/annoyance, so while I'm in the mood I should get back to writing my screenplay titled 'WHAT THE FUCK:  Coming to terms with dying single.'

Peace out Homies. 
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