After an hour and a half of noise from loud drunk women on the 5:45 Metrolink from Union Station, Saturday night...
"Hello Old Ladies"
Hi! Sorry! Hello! I’d like to ask all eight of you ladies a quick question: how many Appletinis did it take to get you to this disgraceful state? Or rather, what bar do you patronize, so that I never make the mistake of entering its doors? And before you pun the Juan in Juanita with “whore” again, I strongly suggest you remember that some of your fellow passengers on this train have friends or sisters with that name. Also, could you please go CHECK that Inland Empire accent that makes Juanita sound like whore? For the sake of everyone in this compartment without noise canceling headphones, please. just. shut. the fuck. up. As far away as she appears to be in the seat across the aisle, your bestie’s face is only a foot from yours. You could punch her if you wanted to. She can hear everything that you’re saying, as can your husband on the phone. Contrary to popular belief, the volume of your voice has nothing to do with how much of a shit he gives about you or what you’re saying. It does, however, correlate strongly with the likelihood of you getting jumped as soon as you step off onto your station, especially when the only things coming out of your mouth are inebriated racial slurs.
Do you see how many glares you’re getting? Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that you are acting 30 years younger than you are (than becomes your age). Go ahead you young at heart you, retain your appetite for life.Go do daring things and challenge yourself to make the most of your days, but don’t invite others to hate you and want to push you off the train. The way you boast of your shitfaced-ness, one might mistake you for teenagers who still believe the old lie — dulce et decorum est getting wasted and being obnoxious. Is this what 45 looks like? Is this the disappointing putrid puddle that my life will drain into one day? An old girls’ night out, when we clearly are not now that confidence which in old days turned heads and charmed rooms? You are certainly not yielding; I’ll give you that. But whatever happened to grace, wisdom, fulfillment of your ambitions and interests? What does it mean when you still have to take drunken breathers from your weekday life? Does it go on like this, going out every week, then only every two weeks, then barely each month, at which point your doctor begins to say “no more fun foods” but gives you a butt load of vitamins and beta-blockers, Q-10, fish oil, osteoporosis meds, magnesium, Iodine-131 for your thyroid carcinoma, and Forest Lawn starts sending you friendly postcards?
If your stop is where I’m headed, I don’t want to go. Please let me believe that I am on a different line, traveling towards a future of higher quality than this world I share with you now.
Shut up and let me believe.