Commute

The noise is akin to Darth Vader exhaling into a megaphone. Original trilogy not any of the newer entries. The mechanical hiss slows the train, halting along side a sign that reads Boston Landing behind that sign and past a divider is the highway, my former road to work. When I would sit quietly on a bus marked 504 reading a book Infrequently and browsing reddit too often. No one spoke, beholden to a kind of unwritten rule. An understanding that my coworker recently transplanted from North Carolina and used to the classic southern hospitality once remarked was cold and off putting. Likewise apart from the occasional cough or sniffle the train car is silent. Until it makes another stop and my mind anticipates paternal reveals that never come. The seating is more comfortable, maroon leather and cushioned. The price is steep however, nearly $300 for a monthly pass is robbery whether on the highway or rails.

Seeing no other option currently I suck it up trying not to obsessively check the mobile banking app on my phone. A habit I have recently taken to. One I owe entirely to postmates when my $2.95 test charge turned into a $295.00 punch in the gut and far too much time wasted on the phone and twitter with their customer service. Eventually the error was reversed but due to logistical issues between the app and my bank I had to wait three days for my money to be returned. I’m told by one of my favorite Youtubers the service itself is great. On the incredibly off chance he ever reads this rambly piece about trains and borderline fraudulent charges I just want to say he can use my promo code postmates.com/gofuckyourselfPhil.

That malice is undoubtedly uncalled for. If a therapist were to give me advice they would likely tell me my anger is misplaced and probably stems from lack of sleep. Which is true, my new commute comes with the added bonus of my REM being interrupted by a default ringtone I meant to change three phones ago. The alarm which makes its presence known at 4:30 each morning has made me realize that this commute is potentially unsustainable. That is to say it’s lit a fire beneath my ass. Providing the proper motivation to either find a way to monetize my writings. Or conversely and perhaps with similar level of dignity provided by blogging I can do crunches until my abs are worth paying for beneath neon lighting, back against a pole, my parent’s approval forsaken. Because what is personal prose but laying your soul bare? Naked to the public for them to critique, point out flaws. A typo here and misplaced punctuation there. I should invest in a proof reader but ego and writing go hand in hand, plus what can I offer? Certainly not money that’s why I’m in the predicament. It’s a scary thing sending something out sans the shield of fiction. It’s almost enough to make me reconsider my current course and seriously debate if that G string is worth it, even in my current flabby state.

If my parents are reading this they have nothing to fear in that respect. I’m not the next Magic Mike, instead I’m just yet another guy with a blog asking his meager twitter follower count to read it. To those loyal followers who perhaps accidentally opened this link and are somehow nearing the end, I hope you enjoyed it and will continue on. To the rest who didn’t click.. I was going to say fuck em they aren’t reading this but that’s pointless and this is my stop.

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