my state of mind while I’m brushing my pearly whites in comparison to my state of mind when I flash my ID card to my building’s security guards, can differ greatly. please allow me to embellish this preamble further…

a list of possible catalytical “mood changers”

1. high humidity
2. a plus-sized person trying to squeeze into 8 inches worth of seat next to me
3. someone’s backback/handbag being heaved into my torso
4. no/little/poor air conditioning in the subway car
5. no access to a handrail
6. slow moving train
7. people that insist on standing in the doorways when I’m trying to board, even if there are seats available
8. folks not shuffling aside when I need to get off at my stop

most every morning I’m walking to the subway in a pretty jovial mood - racking my brains in order to mentally prioritize my day before I even get on the train, probably humming along to Coldplay, strumming my fingers against the sides of my legs to the rhythm.

invariably, 4 out of 5 days, I succumb to one of those bloody bullet points above. having ridden the train for about 3 years now (regularly), I find that some of them are completely bearable. some, however, like a slow moving train, or being jabbed in the back by someone’s fake fucking Coach bag, phase-shifts me from ‘calm and collected British chap’, to ‘I will fucking kill you, with my bare hands’. that kind of encounter happens not-so-frequently, which is perhaps the reason I don’t have a felony record thus far.

until this morning, the aforementioned list of potential ways to turn me into Bill Bixby’s famed jade-colored superhero were commonplace, and apparently not open to additions to said list… then along comes a fat fucking italian greaseball carrying a box of A4 sized paper. I was almost to the coffee cart that I frequent every single day (for the last 18 months), and heading for the revolving door that would usher me into the outside world after departing my surprisingly pleasant train ride… I was in the process of walking the curve of my revolving world, and I noticed this heavy set guy in his 40’s walking toward me, looking to coincide his pace with an open slot in the revolving door. alas, he missed the slot before mine, which left this impatient fat fuck with only one option… to use mine when I exited. you’d think he’d have waited until I fully left my one-fourth of the revolver, but no. he proceeded to use the box of paper as a battering ram, knocking me to my right - my left foot thrown over my right, in an attempt to counter-balance his force.

[yeah, you know what's coming next]

now normally I’m not a verbal guy. I’d rather store that energy, and suppress it with beer that night (I’m kidding) - but I seldom lash out in retaliation… however since moving to new york, my serenity chip has been disabled.

[verbatim]

“HEY! excuse ME! fucking obnoxious prick!”

and what I get in return is the sound-impaired mouthing of a barely distiguishable “fuck you!” from him. typical response from a new yorker - well, one that’s 20 feet from me, and on the other side of a revolving door anyway.

so, I’m adding the following to my list of catalists:

• fat obnoxious new yorkers that think as they’re twice the size of me, they have twice the right to square footage in this city

at least the guy was carrying a box of paper, and not a frigging Sausage & Egg McMuffin meal - there’s hope for some!