Warning! Angry rant ahead. Proceed reading at your own risk.
From now on, I am carrying eggs in my purse. One yoke for every fucking piece of shitty, smelly, bus material on four wheels that decides to pass me RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE STOP, while I waved frantically for the incompetent driver to slow his fat ass down, and he didn't so much as bat an eyelash at me (probably too busy scratching his butt to notice my angry shouts). FUCK THE N8! The most useless fucking route in the city. NEVER AGAIN. I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you die in a fire.
Besides the utter embarrassment I felt for 2 seconds, quickly to be replaced by rage, I called Metro prepared to curse them out. Of course, I made the mistake of asking to report a complaint, and they promptly put me on hold. I don't have the kind of anytime minutes that can be wasted on listening to shitty elevator music, so I hung up and took the damn train one stop to Tenley. Waiting for the AU shuttle (because I'm not stepping foot on another bus for the rest of the fucking day), I'm sure if I could transform into an X-men my eyes would be shooting red beams of destruction, protected only by my $10 sunglasses. If I wasn't wearing chunky snow boots (because Yahoo! weather lied to me and said it was supposed to rain), I would have walked the mile or so back to my office. I needed to blow off steam somehow, so I just glared until I could get to my computer and write an angry email to Metro.
Oh, did I mention that on my way down New Mexico Ave I saw the damn bus coming up the street? Best believe that I memorized the bus number (while glaring evil light at the driver) and included that in my complaint. I hope his stupid ass gets fired. I don't even give a shit, there is no excuse for not doing your fucking job.
Jan 9, 2008
Jan 8, 2008
New Year, New Fare Hike
Yesterday turned out to be a beautifully unusual Monday - 65 degrees in the middle of January. Sweet! Walking the 10 minute hike in heels, through the hood, to the Brookland station didn't seem as dreary. That is, until I went to check the balance of my smart benefits (those things are BOSS) and notice quite the, er, noticeable change in fare.
Because $2.15 wasn't enough to get to Tenleytown, I guess metro officials decided $2.60 was more reasonable for all the "residual" delays, track signal malfunctions, jammed doors, rush hour back ups, and the occasional worker carcass.
Shaking my head, I did like everyone else - mentally allowed an array of curse words to flood through my head as I tapped my smart trip and tripped up the escalator to catch the boarding train. The doors shut on my face and I step back, bumping into my friend who was two beats behind me. Looking around, I notice some familiar faces from the neighborhood, and random people I always see on the platform at this particular quarter hour.
The next train pulls into the station after four minutes, squeaking to a rough stop, and we politely wait for the high school kids to noisily "exit the train before boarding."
Please stand clear of the doors, thank you.
It's funny how I never see the same faces on the metro, ever. But I always end up running into people I know. More than thrice have I run into my classmates, and people who I'd really rather not see ever again. The faces that greeted me on Monday were the typical bland expressions of those who'd rather be anywhere but there. Most have their noses in an Express newspaper, or some other form of reading material. Others stare off blankly into space, their headphones emitting quiet static, or fiddle with their cell phones. I tried hard to see if I could recognize a single person from past commutes, but none of them were familiar, save the few who stood on the platform with me, and my friend dosing off next to me.
It really makes me think about how many different people come in and out of Washington.
The ride to T-town was uneventful and quiet, which is just the way I like my mornings when I have to be up at the ungodly hour of 7. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the return trip at 5:30 pm, which apparently is the new prime time for tourists. I tried to concentrate on my chapter of mistreated, corn-fed cows but it was near impossible with bombarding voice of a southern father ranting about how on time he is, and "yup! wurr gon make it. Here's Cleveland Park, only five more stops, next is Woodly Park, we makin' good time, good thing we didnt' drive cause the beltway sure is a mess, didya hear 'bout that backup on 270?"
I'm sure I speak for myself and everyone on car 4 of the 5:35 pm train to Glenmont when I say that your ranting, twangy voice, oh southern tourist, is equal to a thousand pin needles poking hungrily at our eyeballs, into our brains, causing little pangs of intense pain.
In other words, SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.
K. Thnx. Bubye.
Because $2.15 wasn't enough to get to Tenleytown, I guess metro officials decided $2.60 was more reasonable for all the "residual" delays, track signal malfunctions, jammed doors, rush hour back ups, and the occasional worker carcass.
Shaking my head, I did like everyone else - mentally allowed an array of curse words to flood through my head as I tapped my smart trip and tripped up the escalator to catch the boarding train. The doors shut on my face and I step back, bumping into my friend who was two beats behind me. Looking around, I notice some familiar faces from the neighborhood, and random people I always see on the platform at this particular quarter hour.
The next train pulls into the station after four minutes, squeaking to a rough stop, and we politely wait for the high school kids to noisily "exit the train before boarding."
Please stand clear of the doors, thank you.
It's funny how I never see the same faces on the metro, ever. But I always end up running into people I know. More than thrice have I run into my classmates, and people who I'd really rather not see ever again. The faces that greeted me on Monday were the typical bland expressions of those who'd rather be anywhere but there. Most have their noses in an Express newspaper, or some other form of reading material. Others stare off blankly into space, their headphones emitting quiet static, or fiddle with their cell phones. I tried hard to see if I could recognize a single person from past commutes, but none of them were familiar, save the few who stood on the platform with me, and my friend dosing off next to me.
It really makes me think about how many different people come in and out of Washington.
The ride to T-town was uneventful and quiet, which is just the way I like my mornings when I have to be up at the ungodly hour of 7. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the return trip at 5:30 pm, which apparently is the new prime time for tourists. I tried to concentrate on my chapter of mistreated, corn-fed cows but it was near impossible with bombarding voice of a southern father ranting about how on time he is, and "yup! wurr gon make it. Here's Cleveland Park, only five more stops, next is Woodly Park, we makin' good time, good thing we didnt' drive cause the beltway sure is a mess, didya hear 'bout that backup on 270?"
I'm sure I speak for myself and everyone on car 4 of the 5:35 pm train to Glenmont when I say that your ranting, twangy voice, oh southern tourist, is equal to a thousand pin needles poking hungrily at our eyeballs, into our brains, causing little pangs of intense pain.
In other words, SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH.
K. Thnx. Bubye.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
