Kindness

Photobucket
To the two jerks who made a fuss on the Long Island Rail Road when my girlfriend and I tried to sit down and you grudgingly moved your bag.

I am supposed to understand humans. They say nothing is more nobler or of a higher enjoyment, than the characteristics of humans. You made that hard. It was difficult to be amused by you. Both of you. That means your woman also, who claimed to have not been your women. (Was that an invitation to me?) Public transportation. Look it up. That means, when I want to sit down in the only two seats available, and your plastic bags are on the seats. You move those plastic bags. Move them. Put them above you. Put them below you. Put them on your lap, make a hat, stack em’ flat. Get them off the seat.

It didn’t have to be that way. You didn’t need to curse at me. I work. I pay my taxes. I drink water. I write mail. I use the bathroom. I’m a person. Probably, something like you used to be, before you became cunts. (That is not saying a “cunt” is a bad thing; I am using the second definition: a person who is thoroughly disliked.)

What right do you have to deny me a seat on public transportation? None. Ninguna de nadie. I made it easy for you. After I sat down, I attempted to ease the awkwardness, “I’m a good conversationalist? I can talk to you about stuff. What do you like to talk about?” The man giggled. The woman didn’t hear. “What did you say?” “What did you say?” This faux niceness. You were challenging me. I just looked at you, seeing right through your fake, flabby, necklace. Then he awkwardly repeats, “He says he can talk to us about what we like to talk about.” “Can you?” With a smug look, “Can you?” Really. Really? Don’t act like you don’t deserve to be treated like dirt. Don’t be surprised when I wait five minutes (in total silence, averting my gaze the whole time) then bring it up again, “We’re all going to the beach. What sort of kindness is that? Telling me to go sit some where else, while your plastic bags take up two seats, and have you make that pitiful face, “We’re not a couple, and he’s very tall. If I move over, he’ll crush my legs.” Brilliant. You are a neurosurgeon. Question. If you were a couple, would your legs be okay? In fact, what does you guys, not being a couple, have to do with anything? And “crush?” Really?! He’ll “crush” your legs. You’ll never walk again? You’ll be an amputee?

It’s Memorial Day. We’re all going to the beach. I don’t know if you’re separately, as insane as you are together. But please. For the love of the planet (and a few of us humans who happen to enjoy life, and view—being squished together for eight minutes—an adventure of sorts). Be nice. Take a step back. Look at yourself. Look at your actions. Cause chances are, you are going to do the same thing to someone else, and they may not respond as civilized as I did.

P.S. If we lived in a world without ethics, I would love nothing more than to punch you in the face, and the girl in the neck.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s