I can’t remember what the hell it’s like to be on a train.
That’s the kind of train that seems like the only place you could get to the point of being an actual “cunt” and not a “bitch,” and the kind that seems to never let up its desire to take your money, make you feel like a “nigger” and then force you to pay for a drink.
But I’m a little bit of a cunt on the train.
I’m sitting in the first class section of a new coach, the first of the four seats, and I’m reading a book by an author I’ve never heard of before, a woman named Jody.
She has a really funny book called A Cocky Girl, about a girl who wants to be an actress.
She was born a “fucking faggot,” she told me, and “she’s a real bitch,” and that’s how she got her acting gig.
Jody’s not even a faggist, but she’s definitely a bitch.
I mean, she’s not a fag.
The book she’s reading is called A Cheat, which is about a guy who thinks he’s a cheater.
And he’s also a really, really big, big, bad, big fat, huge, faggots.
And the story goes, when he was in high school, he was a very athletic, very good athlete, but he got into a really big trouble for cheating on his girlfriend.
He was caught.
His girlfriend was taken away, he’s now out of school, and he has to move to a different town.
JODY is reading her book.
I look up and realize I’m standing in front of a man who is, like, a total douchebag.
He’s standing in the middle of the train car, reading.
I can see him looking at me and I can hear him talking to his friend, the train engineer, who is looking at the other seats, looking at his feet, and then back to Jody, who’s reading her own book.
We are, like—I’m sitting there, with Jody on the floor, reading a new book, I am sitting there and I am staring at him, staring at the train, staring and talking to him, and looking and talking with him, but I am not the type of person to actually, you know, look at myself in the mirror.
I just stare.
I feel so weird, because I’m not really a guy.
I don’t know how to be like, I guess, “I’m just a fagged-out cunt who can’t wait to be paid for it,” because I think that’s kind of the point.
Like, what is the point?
The thing about being a “cunts” on a subway is that you’re either a “troublemaker” or you’re a “dude,” and you’re just trying to get on a little train, so you end up like this guy who is a “problem.”
You’re the one who ends up getting drunk.
Or you’re the guy who gets caught.
And so that’s why I can be a bit of an asshole on the subway.
It’s just a place where you have to be.
And I can tell you this: The only thing worse than sitting in a fucking train car is sitting in one, which has a lot of other people in it.
This is the train in the Bronx, and it’s full of people.
There’s a lot going on, and a lot people are watching.
It is full of a lot, but it’s also very lonely.
And when you’re in a train car with a lot and people watching, there is a real loneliness.
Like you’re surrounded by all these people, you can’t tell anyone.
You’re surrounded with your own thoughts, all these things.
You just don’t really know who they are.
So if you’re looking for someone, you might see the person sitting next to you, but you might not be able to tell who that person is.
You might not even know who that guy is.
The person next to me, I could tell immediately, because he’s like—he’s like the next one on the list, right?
I could see him, because his hair is just like a bun.
He has a haircut that goes all the way down his neck, which I really, I really like.
And his face is just—you know, he has a very, very thick face.
So I could definitely tell immediately.
I was watching him and I could feel it in my body.
I could almost feel it.
I looked up and there he was, in front me.
I have to go, “Wait, I don—wait, what?”
And he was standing next to my friend, and my friend was like, “Oh, yeah, he looks the same.” And