"That's Disgusting:" A True Train Tale

The following occurred on the first Friday of 2014, on the Orange Line T (one of Boston's subway lines).

Station of Origin

Got on train and stood beside row of seats. Man on seat closest to me is holding on to an orange suitcase. The woman across from him is holding a suitcase, too.

Suddenly, man gets up, walks over to the woman, spits in her eye, and sits back down.

"Really?" the woman asks furiously as she wipes her eye. "Really?"

I assume that they know each other and are fighting.

"I have never been spit on before in my life," the woman continues. "And by a stranger!"

Scratch that, they do not know each other, this man is disturbed and continuing the fine Boston tradition of spitting on people in public transportation. Fortunately, it is cold so I have my turtleneck covering half my face, thus reducing the surface area for targeting if he decides to spit some more.

"What's wrong with you?" the woman asks. He grips his suitcase and twitches, mumbling.

"You have issues," she says. "You clearly have issues."

Next Stop

Another woman comes up to the man, leans down, and says firmly, "That's disgusting." As she walks out the doors, she passes the spit-upon woman and says, "I'm sorry."

The train doors close. We start moving again. People who have seen the spitting incident stand around awkwardly.

"You should get off this train," the woman says to the man, becoming more visibly upset.

"You should get off this train," he responds.

"I will," she counters. "My stop is coming up."

Then she glances over a few rows down and has a conversation with a tall dude who seems to say, "Do you want me to punch him in the face?"

Stop Three

We roll to a stop. A burly T worker comes down the aisle. "There's been an assault?" he rumbles.

The woman puts up her hand. "I was spit on!" she says.

"Is he still here?" the worker, who is likely the train driver, asks.

I am still standing beside the spitter, so I point frantically at him. The T driver begins to lumber in his direction.

The man stands up with his suitcase and punches the woman in the face as he runs out the door.

Other passengers start yelling that she needs medical attention. Her nose is bleeding, but she keeps assuring people she's okay. Everyone with a tissue pack is crowding around her and offering their nosebleed solution. "I've never been punched before," she reveals. At one point, she even apologizes for the train being delayed.

"Don't apologize," a fellow rider says immediately. "This is not your fault."

Some people are asking the driver to chase the man, who had booked it down the platform. "I can't touch him," the driver responds. He turns to the woman and gives her a choice: keep the train at the station so we could all wait for the police to arrive and hunt down the escaped crazy person, or disembark and give her statement.

She chose to disembark. The guy she had been speaking to earlier, the one who I thought volunteered to punch the offender in the face, turns out be a victim as well -- he had also been punched in the face, apparently prior to the spitting. Someone must have hit the emergency call button after the first punch, or the high-velocity, close-range sputum.

Both punchees follow the T worker out of the train.

Moments later, the doors close and the T continues on its merry way. "We apologize for the delay," says the loudspeaker.

We all stand there. "What is wrong with people?" asks a woman nearby.

I have no answer for her.

###

I haven't seen this covered in the news, so I guess it must have slipped under the radar. The polar vortex that has killed 17 people in the midwest so far overshadows all.

At this point, only doge can express my feels:

On the plus side, it was heartening to see people rush to help when they finally understood what was happening.

So...Happy New Year?

CVS ExtraCare Rewards Must Die

CVS is a national pharmacy that has a big presence in Boston. It has decent staff, self-checkout kiosks, and a good selection of everyday products ranging from shampoo to cookies.

Alas, it also has a “rewards” program that I suspect is secretly a means to drive customers insane so that we go to the pharmacy and buy concoctions that numb us to the pain and fury.

Now, I define a reward as something nice that I receive because I have been good. Petco, for example, will take five dollars off any purchase after I’ve spent a certain amount at their store. I get the coupon by email, print it out, and present it to the register after I’ve loaded up on kitty snacks. For added convenience, I can just show the cashier the coupon on my phone, and s/he will manually enter the barcode number into the machine. (I meant my convenience, obviously, not the cashier’s.)

By contrast, the ExtraCare program at CVS seems to have been designed by a cohort of the criminally insane. It barely makes sense, and you want to expel it from society at the earliest opportunity.

The entire process begins innocently enough, and then spirals into a maddening redefinition of the meaning of “reward.” First, you shop and then scan your ExtraCare card to get any listed discounts. After you pay, the machine prints out a receipt roughly the same length as an NBA player. The receipt contains the pièce de résistance of CVS’ tireless efforts to assail your sense of all that is right in the world. It makes extravagant promises of “X dollars off for…” and, here, here, is where it all goes down the toilet. For example:

$1 off the next $10 purchase of bar soap! …I don’t buy bar soap.

$2 off any L’Oreal Age-Defying Moisturizer! …I just hit my thirties, but thank you for reminding me about society’s obsession with youth and/or looking young.

$1 off any $5,000 purchase of pain medication! …I presume this is based on that one tiny bottle of Advil I bought one time. 

The worst part is that you need to bring the receipt, with its easily-fading ink, to collect said “rewards,” and you usually only have a week to do so. Sure, I understand that CVS wants repeat customers, but does it really think that promising discounts for stuff I usually don’t get will make me come back and buy them? “Oh boy, a dollar off a razor for butt hairs! Better hustle to the nearest CVS! ...Wait a minute.”

Also, why can't they put the rewards on my card? I carry that around everywhere.

In short, as far as incentives go, the ExtraCare Rewards program is a pile of stinky poop trying to look like a cupcake. I shall never touch it. I would say to it, in my Inigo Montoya voice: "You keep using this word, 'rewards.' I do not think it means what you think it means." For shame, CVS. 

This post brought to you by sheer mental exhaustion, as if you couldn't tell.

The Tyranny

Forget the protests in Egypt. Look beyond the continuing saga of Snowden. Ignore US politicians' attempts to control women. The true tyranny is here:

These innocent-seeming shoes, which I snapped up at the new TJ Maxx at the Galeria, gave me blisters. Blisters! Small pockets of fluid caused by friction! Oh the pain! The agony! How can you compare violent national protests and invasions of privacy and cruel patriarchalism to my office dress code-induced pain?

You cannot. Please, readers, learn from my tragedy -- walk, do not run, and certainly not over great distances, in brand new shoes. Then you shall be spared the suffering. 

This post brought to you by Vacation Mode, Fourth of July subcategory. 

How was the First Week?

It was good, until I delved deeper into the shared drive and did one of these:

Duplicate files in redundant folders! Documents in the wrong places! This is madness! This...is...SPARTAAAAHHH...!

Note: In my failed attempt to look up a word that rhymes with "Sparta," I googled "smegma." Except I forgot to do it in an incognito window. Blargh.

Happy Friday!

Still Not Married, Despite Wedding and Honeymoon

Massachusetts regulations dictate that a couple wishing to become Smug Marrieds (Bridget Jones' Diary, anyone?) must:

a. Apply together for a marriage license at City Hall.
b. Have the wedding officiant sign the marriage license and send it back to City Hall.
c. Pick up copies of the marriage certificate.

I've gone to City Hall four times now, in the hopes of securing copies of the marriage certificate so I can get the ball rolling on getting my name changed.

(Incidentally, my decision to trade my exquisitely exotic last name for a surname that sounds like fluffy winter hand gear is based on my burning desire to finally stop having people getting it wrong ALL THE TIME. Rrrrgh.)

I assumed that, since almost a month has passed since the ceremony, and the officiant lives about 45 minutes away from us, that step (b) was complete. I was wrong. I got a big fat nothing burger all four times I made the trip to City Hall, making my failure rate an impressive 100%.

So, mothers, lock up your sons, Fragrant Elephant is not legally married yet! Still a Singleton! Wooooo!!!

And now I shall cry giant woman tears of sorrow into my goblet of sangria.

By Chance

I was there with a friend three-plus hours into the 2013 Boston Marathon. We squeezed in with the crowds and joined them in cheering for these determined strangers. We shouted louder when a soldier marched past, laden with a full backpack. We laughed at the utter disregard for open container laws. There was so much energy and excitement.

We got to the finish line and took pictures of the runners, who looked exhausted but jubilant. I remember telling my friend, "Look, some of these guys have been running for almost four hours!" Then we wandered off. I went home, kissed Fiancé hello, and sat down on the couch to read. Moments later, he yelled, "WTF?" and told me to turn on the TV.

The scenes shown were unbelievable. I was just there, literally at that spot. If my friend and I had hung around for another fifteen or twenty minutes, we would have been caught in the blasts.

As I watched the news, I kept thinking about how there were so many people. The sidewalks were packed when we left. There were children and pets everywhere. The only bright side was that the explosions occurred near the medical response teams.

There are three dead and over a hundred injured. By chance, my friend and are I am not among them. By chance, we decided to leave when we did. By chance, we didn't go into a store, or do anything else that would have kept us there.

Holy shit.

The casualties were mostly spectators, but we checked in with the runners we knew. Our friend finished and left before it happened. There were runners for the place where I interviewed last week, so I emailed my interviewer to say that I hoped everyone was fine. She replied that they were all safe. At our gym, the trainers and members who ran were apparently all okay.

I'm relieved. It really does hit you hard when it strikes close to home. I love Boston, and this is some fucking bullshit, pardon my French. I'd donate blood, but (a) they already have enough, and (b) no one wants anything that came from my third world veins. Well then, thoughts and prayers it is.

In conclusion: Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert pay tribute to Boston following the bombing. 

The Layoff Dirge

Bullshit, that travels 'round
Business too lame for song;
Hopeful dreams, quickly drowned
No cubicle to belong;
To the worker, a rejection,
Severance, a poor compensation,
This unwelcome vacation--
Wail, or play along?

*Adapted from "A Dirge" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Movie Review: Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 2

Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 2 is AWFUL. The "plot" barely existed, the "dialogue" and "acting" consisted entirely of meaningful glances shared between cast members, and the music was almost as overblown as Michael Sheen's scenery-chewing. Yet this wreck of a film made $829,224,737 worldwide. Yes, over eight hundred MILLION dollars. Inconceivable!

The story, such as it is, goes like this: blank slate with hair Bella Swan finally becomes a vampire after her vampire husband Edward injects her with his venom to save her life after he extracted their half-vampire baby from her body via C-section using his teeth. You'd think that they would cherish the little monster, what with all the agony they went through to bring her into the world. No. Instead they go hunting all day, then go into their new home and make the beast with two backs all night. Ah, the carefree life of teenage parents!

Then some blonde with a grudge catches sight of the freakish CGI child, who grows by the day. Blonde reports to the Volturi, the vampire Mafia / Catholic Church allegory. Apparently, the Volturi don't like "immortal children," and would love an excuse to destroy the Cullen coven anyway, so Bella and Edward gather witnesses all over the world to prove that their child is half-human. Then they have a climatic showdown with the ominously caped Volturi. Who will prevail?

Oh, and Taylor Lautner took his shirt off. "OH, COME ON!" Fiancé bellowed, drowning out the sound of my labia clapping.

Fiancé and I saw Breaking Dawn Part 2 with RiffTrax, an audio file that syncs to the movie. Having RiffTrax point out the awfulness of the movie is the only way to watch the final Twilight movie without clawing out your eyeballs to make it stop. The track made us howl with laughter at their repeated questions of, "Don't they have a child?"; their relentless faux fop accents for the Volturi; cries of "Raccoon Power!"; pointed comments about werewolf pedophilia; and more!

Bottom line: watch Twilight Breaking Dawn Part 2 if you have RiffTrax! If you don't have RiffTrax and you're not a fan, or if you're open-minded but have standards, avoid at all costs.

This movie review brought to you by a banana with peanut butter: the perfect mid-morning snack!

Miffed to Melancholic in Ten Minutes

This morning I congratulated myself for already having achieved the worst idea of the week: affixing my thigh-highs to my undies via safety pins. I won't go into detail, but let's just say that gravity overwhelmed my civil engineering efforts.

Then I went from miffed to melancholic in about ten minutes. The transition began when I sat down at my desk and checked in on the latest in Health & Human Services news, because that's part of my job. Usually I read articles about state budgets for deinstitutionalization, or studies about co-morbidity rates, or opinion pieces on healthcare. Pretty dry stuff, usually. Sometimes I get inspiring stories where children with disabilities get intervention early enough to make significant improvements in the quality of their lives. Those are great.

However, the news items this morning were neither great nor dry. A colleague sent me a link to an article about the new guy heading the L.A. County's Department of Children and Family Services. As I read it, I saw the picture of a little girl on the left sidebar, along with the headline link: "Report excoriates L.A. County agency in child deaths, torture." Now, I usually see these types of reports associated with Florida, so I clicked the link.

If you didn't click like I did, and I don't blame you, here's the skinny: case workers who basically give zero shits contributed to the deaths by abuse of children. The child in one of the highlighted cases was two years old. The other was a "young boy," found in a closet. In both cases, the agency received multiple tips that the parents or caretakers abused the kids. The agency closed the inquiries. When they did check, Vyctorya and Johnny were dead.

So I stopped reading. I went to BBC to read general news. Then I saw "Lab bids to combat species smuggling." In one example, poachers in Kenya slaughtered 79 elephants and put their loot in six crates that were then confiscated in Thailand. A photo I once saw on BBC flashed through my mind: a dead would-be mommy elephant, her tusks chopped off, her baby cut out of her out of curiosity, both corpses left on the ground.

As you can tell by my blog name, I love elephants. They're smart and gentle and sociable.

It's sad that we live in a world where people murder magnificent creatures to decorate some douchebag's house or improve some sap's fertility. It's awful that horrible people become parents and then hurt and kill their own children.

It really puts my thigh-highs situation in perspective. 

Newtown

Had to stop reading the profile of the victims because of tears. The gunman killed women and children. You know, the people that get to go on lifeboats first. I read about how the teachers died shielding the kids and I just lost it. President Obama was a wreck, too.

Don't Join the Harvard Club

Do you have standards? Then don't join the Harvard Club.

Sure, the Downtown Club offers beautiful views of the Charles River and downtown Boston. Yes, the food is delicious and the service is unparalleled. And I'm sure the Main Clubhouse is a veritable hall of delights.

But their member services staff can't get their act together. Allow me to expound.

At Fiancé's urging, in mid-October I electronically handed over a few hundred bucks for the privilege of eating out and name-dropping. Were I one year older, I would have had to pony up over a thousand bucks. Fortunately, I am still 30.

A couple of weeks pass by. Nothing from the Harvard Club. In November, I email a member services person. He apologizes and says the new member packet is on its way. In the meantime, I am to use the guest member number 666* to enter the premises. Fiancé and I still need to submit photo IDs every time we want to go up the Club. The guards at the front desk of One Federal have to open the turnstiles for us. Okay, no problem.

A couple more weeks go by. At that point, we'd had a dinner there and enjoyed it. I wrote to the member services person again to check in about the new member packet. No response.

The next day, I received an email from another member services person. "Dear Peter," it began. (If you do not know me, dear reader, I assure you I am not a Peter.) The email gently reminded me that since my member dues were so low, I had to spend a minimum amount at the Club every quarter.

I responded politely that I am Fragrant Elephant, the member, and I'll definitely come again to give them more of my money. I also asked when I might expect to receive my new member packet. Again, no response.

So off we went on the day before Thanksgiving. Lunch was terrific. The wait staff were as superb as ever. I asked the girl at the front desk about a new member packet, and she directed me to member services. I could not even lol at this irony. I asked about maybe getting an ID so we could just breeze in next time. She pulled out a folder, wrote my name on a card, and handed it to me.

I gave it back. "My name is not Elephant Fragrant," I told her. "It's Fragrant Elephant."

She said the system had my name wrong, and she changed it on the computer. She gave me a new card and told me to get a barcode from downstairs.

Next, I wanted to know if I could change my payment information, since I'm there already. (I had recently changed my credit card no thanks to a scam Chinese website and my own idiocy.) When you eat at the Club, they don't give you a receipt -- they bill your credit card. So they needed my new info if they wanted me to pay for the awesome lobster casserole in my stomach. "No, just do it online," said the receptionist. "Use your [REDACTED] and your [REDACTED] to log in."

I logged in and discovered that "hideous" is the aesthetic for the Harvard Club intranet design. Turns out I can only change my credit card info by authorizing the Club to automatically charge me monthly. I am leery of this option, since I just received a bill that demanded an extra thirty bucks for not meeting my minimum. I guess they didn't count our dinner, because Fiancé paid for it. Alas, chivalry! Thy days art over!

In the Harvard Club's defense, it looks and sounds really fancy. But like the University, it seems to have its share of absentminded professionals.

In conclusion: come for the food and service, flee from the management.

This rant is brought to you by Three Drinks Thursdays.

*666 is not actual member number

Let's Talk About Sex...ism

Today, BBC News covered the story of Dana Bakdounis' unveiling, which I'll use momentarily to segue into my favorite topic: me. But first, the background: Dana had been following the Uprising of Women in the Arab World page on that scourge of humanity Facebook, and posted an image of herself on the site, unveiled and holding up a photo of her veiled self with a note in English that read: "I'm with the uprising of women in the Arab world because, for 20 years, I wasn't allowed to feel the wind in my hair and my body." Verily, a powerful expression of freedom and courage, from a young woman raised in conservative Saudi Arabia.

Side note: One of my friends lived in Saudi Arabia as a kid and the other kids threw rocks at her because she wasn't an Arab, even though she's Muslim just like them. Religion: not quite the unifying force of your imagination!

I hope the coverage of Dana's story continues. In the meantime, I remain grateful for my boring life, where the worst I have to deal with is being told to my face that:

• I should never get fat, because all I have to offer my future husband are my face and body;
• I should stop reading, because it's unattractive;
• I'm only marrying Husband-elect because of his credit card;
• I need to get married right away because my value will diminish as I get older.

So awesome!

I've also received backhanded compliments, like how I think like a man so I can be told certain secret manly things. Love the secret manly things! Like, did you know there are websites where guys calculate their chances of landing specific types of women, based on results reported by guys who've already gotten those women? Science!

I'm going to stop right now because I'm going to give myself a rage heart attack. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, so in honor of the Native Americans who so kindly shared their resources with the pilgrims, I give a message of thanks to all men who respect men and women equally. Thanks for believing in us and supporting us as we struggle to lead good lives in a world that often isn't fair. Thank you, and please pass on your values.

And while you're at it, pass the turkey leg and stuffing. I'm hungry.

Fuck You, AT&T Customer Service

Last month, I bought the iPhone 5 and decided it was time to get a new number, too, a Boston number to reflect my current location. I'd had a Philadelphia number before. I stayed a loyal AT&T customer, and what do I get? They're scamming me an entire fucking month for a phone I no longer use. Fuck you, AT&T.

Backstory: I happily activated my new phone, with its shiny new number. I called AT&T Customer Service and spoke to Jason, who then passed me on to Michelle. I explained to Michelle that I had a new phone (Boston), and since the contract on my old phone (Philadelphia) had expired, I wanted to terminate that line. She assured me that the Philadelphia line would be cancelled at the end of the next billing cycle. I confirmed the date -- October 26, 2012 -- and she said there would be no charges after that day, that there would be no more wireless bill for that number, and it would simply stop working as a cell phone.

Today: I plug in the old phone to check what OS it has, and the "AT&T" text shows up on the cell bar. Confused, I called my mom. It fucking rang. The phone still fucking works, nine days after it's supposed to be a brick. WTF. I checked online for the wireless bill. Oh, look they're charging me for the next cycle, which runs from October 27 through November 26. I'm paying for a goddamned phone I'm not using, that I told them specifically that I'm not using, would you please terminate it.

I called AT&T and spoke to [mumbles], who then passed me on to someone else. Here's how it went down:

Furious Elephant: ...and I was told that this phone would stop working last month and I wouldn't have to pay anything. Now I'm seeing charges for the next billing cycle.

Customer Rep: Unfortunately, your request did not go through.

Furious Elephant: I want this line cancelled. Is there a way to backdate the cancellation?

Customer Rep: Unfortunately, I can only future-date the cancellation.

Furious Elephant: So I'm paying for two phones on AT&T, one of which I'm not using?

Customer Rep: Yes.

Furious Elephant: That seems foolish.

(silence)

Furious Elephant: Look, I just want to make sure this line gets cancelled. Will it stop working on November 26?

Customer Rep: That's correct.

Furious Elephant: And is there a way for me to confirm that? Should I just call you guys again?

Customer Rep: No, you won't need to do that. It won't be able to make calls then.

Furious Elephant: Okay. What's your name?

Customer Rep: Robert.

Furious Elephant: Last time I was helped by someone named Michelle. I didn't know her last name, either.

(silence)

Furious Elephant: All right. Do I need to do anything else to make sure this thing gets cancelled?

Robert: No, that's it.

Furious Elephant: Well, thanks very much.

Robert: Thank you (choking) for being a valued customer of AT&T.

- 0 -

GRRRRRRR.

Well, lessons learned:

1. Get the customer rep's full name and any other identifying information to improve chances of correct perp getting screamed at for being incompetent.
2. Kick it up to the supervisor as soon as it becomes clear you won't be helped.

I would've done the above, but I was so upset I couldn't talk. Next time I'm making Husband-elect deal with this crap. He's very good at loudly yet politely informing people that they suck at their job. That's how we got complimentary cheese and champagne at the Westin.

In conclusion: GRRRRRRRRR.

===

UPDATE: 11/08/2012

I sent a furious yet polite email to AT&T right after the call. I wrote out the issue and asked them not to make me call customer service again, since that doesn't work.

I guess a higher-up read the email, because the line has disappeared from the billing statement, and we got a credit for it! Hurray!

Thank you, AT&T!

How to Twist Words

I like to play Word-Twist with Boyfriend. No, not the Boggle rip-off. I refer to the game where your opponent thinks you're having a perfectly normal conversation, and then you sneak in a response that is near-hysterical, bitterly acrimonious, or just plain loopy. As an example:

Him: I like it when you talk.

Me: Oh, you think I talk too much?

See what I did there? I seized the verb, twisted the context of the sentence, and spat out something eye-bulgingly wrong. Here's another gem:

Him: Let me help you with that.

Me: Why? You think I can't do it?

Unwarranted defensiveness adds spice to every tête-à-tête! Mais oui!

But as much as I am genetically and environmentally advantaged when it comes to being crazy, there are others who are so good at Word-Twist that they can plant a lie seed, water it with further untruths, fertilize it with embellishments, and prune it into shape with the sharpened bones of fallen enemies when it becomes a full-grown lie bush.

...Wait, WTF? Dammit, I really thought I had something good going when I started that metaphor. Oh, well.

Anyway, I refer to he who in my previous comic is depicted as a smog monster. He responded to this article, which detailed the reasons for his dismissal from a major organization (hint: if they tell you not to work on a personal project during office hours, don't send 5,900+ emails about the project using your work account during office hours), with a website announcement about how awesome he and his project is and how they were sooooo wrong back at his old office. To give credit where credit is due, the response is only 30% boilerplate fundraising language. But what percentage is poop from a bull? The newspaper attempts to address that question with this article.

Oh, the drama! The words, they fly like glinting ninja stars through the heated air of the night!

(Note to self: STOP WITH THE PURPLE PROSE FOR PITY'S SAKE.)

Dear readers, I encourage you to think about Word-Twist as you go about your pure, innocent lives. Ponder the motivation behind a half-truth or a bald-faced lie. Consider the consequences of corrupting the intention behind a phrase. Imagine the radioactive power of sweet promises turned into decayed hope. And then practice on a loved one! MWAHAHAHAHAAAAA

Just kidding. Be nice, kids.

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Things that are Wrong

#1: Yesterday's Wind

In hindsight, I should probably not have worn a swirly skirt and my "Best Kisser" underoos, because holy Lord that wind was out to get me. I stepped out with my co-workers for lunch and flashed the entire world as I crossed the bridge. I kid you not, the wind was a howler. Hats were flying through the air, babies were being ripped from their parents' arms, and I swear a cow blew past me.

Hilariously, the City of Boston claims, "Because of its moderate coastal weather systems, Boston is not known to suffer from particularly windy weather." Tell that to the countless umbrellas who have fallen in the fight against the Boston wind. May those brave warriors rest in peace.

#2: The Republican Primaries

JUST PICK ONE ALREADY GEEZ. Here, let me help you decide:

Candidate	(+)	(-)
Mitt Romney	Knows a thing or two about the economy	Openly a robot
Rick Santorum	Sincerely conservative	Looks like a potato
Newt Gingrich	Unassailable self-confidence	Looks like a fat potato
Ron Paul	Consistent	May have to be stapled to his chair

There. Now choose!

#3: The inspiration behind this comic

Happy Friday!

The T: Morning Madness

It takes 12 minutes for me to get to work on the train. Sweet, right? Yes, it is.

What's not sweet is the rush hour crowd of commuters. Usually, I handle it pretty well -- I just plug my earphones in, start up Final Fantasy III on my iPhone, and I am off to a magical place where fearsome beasts will get the pwning they richly deserve, at least after I level up and buy expensive equipment.

This morning was special, though. Not special as in "needs consideration due to developmental disabilities," but special as in "you deserve my foot in your ass." I first became aware of unpleasantness when a young lady nearby started loudly declaring into her cell phone, "This kid is embarrassing. He won't do what I say." Please note that I hear this through my headphones that are trumpeting RPG battle music (bumbumbum BUMBUM bumbumbumbumbum BUMBUM buh-buh-BUUUUUM), and the kid in question is a little five-year-old, who appears to be guilty of... wait for it... walking around. The little reprobate! The woman, who was clearly not his mother, seemed utterly furious with him, and was declaring said fact for the benefit of everyone within a twenty-foot radius.

Okay, fine, maybe the kid was annoying on the way to the train station. Whatever. I focused on my game, got into the insanely crowded train, and kept playing. Then, her overweight friend, who was also towing along a little kid (a sweet little girl in corn rows, awwww widdle Bo Derek), started playing her game -- without earphones. So I had Angry Birds music overwhelming my Final Fantasy. By an adult, who should know better. Okay, no problem.

And then the train lurched, as it sometimes does, and I stumbled back into Ms. Fat Angry Birds, who. Shoved. Me. Shoved me! This was my reaction:

"Hmpf."

And this is how I really felt inside:

"If I had a cannonball in my bag I would drop it on your

foot and then headbutt you as you double over in pain

and then I will eat your faaaaace!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Maybe I shouldn't have watched Resident Evil the night before. Or maybe horrible rude people shouldn't be horrible and rude. That's it, next time I'm going to have my Bose QuietComfort® Acoustic Noise Cancelling headphones instead of my dinky little iPhone earphones.

Who wants to buy me Bose QuietComfort® Acoustic Noise Cancelling headphones? 

*snicker*

I saw this article on slate.com and had to snicker. The writer is concerned about what she views as extraordinarily high compensations for CEOs of two large non-profits. Oh, sugarpie, if only you knew...

http://www.slate.com/id/2220596/

FML

A comedian once joked that the people you hate are the people you'll end up with in your life. Unfortunately, that's true. Here is my tale of woe:

I was bullied as a kid. Said bully would make his friends walk in on me while I'm in the bathroom, or wipe mud from his shoes onto the book I'm reading at that very moment, or kick me off the bed during nap time, or call me ugly. Okay, fine. We all grow up and get over that.

It turns out that the bullies don't. The very pain they were trying to inflict on others stays with them, affecting them until they become unable to function normally. They become weak, in mind and in spirit.

I have the distinct displeasure of living with the very same bully whom I loathed as a child. I've had to listen to the constant whining about how hard his life is; I've kept my mouth shut when he blamed our parents for how he turned out; I've let him stay without paying a single dime toward rent.  And when I try to point out what could happen if he just tried harder, I get the "but you went to Harvard so you're set for life" speech. There are so many ways I could counter that pathetic argument that I won't even bother in this post.

AND, just to make it even lovelier, he's gross. Yesterday I came home and my apartment stank to high heaven, and it was because of cat poop (he'll feed the cat but not clean up after her) and also, he forgot to flush the toilet after taking a dump. Wow. Then after I washed the dirty dishes he thoughtfully left on the table and all across the kitchen sink, I saw that he'd somehow managed to drop a half-eaten lemon in the clothes cabinet. WTF? The last straw was this morning: I was drinking from my usual glass and there were ASHES in it. ASHES. IN THE GLASS.

So I now wake up resentful and go to bed furious. What the hell did I do to be saddled with this horrific karma? I'm not seeing the humor in this situation right now. The only realistic strategy I've come up with is becoming a one-woman SHUN team: completely ignore target until target goes away.

Arrrrggghhhhhhhh. FML, FML, FML.