During the week, I commute to work by train. It’s not an ideal arrangement given that I spend three hours a day on the train, but it’s a helluva lot better when you consider the alternatives – driving, cycling, walking? Most of the time, it’s a fine commute with only minor annoyances. Like the woman with the hyena laugh, I could punch her. Or the guy who shouts some Russian sounding language into his cell phone the entire way – I really hope he goes bankrupt someday. Again, minor annoyances.
But this fucking woman sitting across the table from me takes the fucking cake! She rolls up with a small blue rolling suitcase. This is a commuter train, but okay, I get that. After siting down, she unzips the suitcase and, to my horror, produces a Hollywood fucking makeup studio: plastic bags with beat up tubes and lipsticks, a gaudy rectangular silver case with lord knows what (maybe a blow dryer?), and clips and tissue paper and and brushes and all this, just, shit! Worse still, she’s been applying makeup for the last 30 minutes and still looks horrendous!
To be fair, I understand it’s sometimes necessary to finish getting ready on the train, especially when it picks your ass up at 7am. But let’s not get carried away. Don’t crowd other passengers’ space with all your plastic baggies and shit. Don’t spend 30 fucking minutes scowling and making other ridiculous faces at your compact while applying mascara. Oh god, now she’s reaching for the cotton swabs! Lady, the train is not your personal fucking make up studio!
I’m shaving on the train tomorrow.
