SSShhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh........

   

       Stand clllllllllllllllllear of the cllllllllllosing doors plllllllllllease. For anyone who consistently rides the number one train on an unlimited metro card in New York City, you know who you are and exactly who I'm talking about. There's a subway conductor on the red line who tortures me probably three to four times a week (almost exactly at 10:25pm) with his extremely hard R's and over enunciated L's! I hate this guy's voice more than my thumbs could ever express to you on a touch screen or key board! He loves making these horrible speeches in a state of extended arduous slow motion. His R's are so intense in fact, and so inappropriate that they would give a speech therapist either a heart attack or a three hour Cialis boner. He has no idea that his verbal masturbation lines directly up with my work schedule and my nightly train ride home from the bar four nights a week. He'll never know how uncomfortable he makes everyone within earshot of his overly articulated mandatory announcements that every other subway conductor lets slide. I estimated that this fool makes alternating announcements every single stop instead of hearing maybe two to four the entire ride. I mean how many times can you stomach an announcement that reminds you that every brown package you see could possibly tare your face off at any moment with a nail bomb; all before nine AM? Good morning New York! Or that the very subway car you are sitting in could explode into a ball of fire, peeling the metal car apart from angry extremist retaliation and making you a bloody Jackson Pollock-Jihad art instillation! I wonder where my stress comes from? The conductor, who I shall refer to as the home school serial killer guy, should audition to replace Tim Gunn on Project Runway when he spontaneously burstssssss into a cloud of pink glitter and tool when Heidi finally whips out and reveals her huge German penis. His phrasing is more of a roller-coaster dip than a lilt and the sheer grating nature of this guy's voice would make one want to lay down in front of the train instead of get on it. Or perhaps write a blog which is what I did. He couldn't be more available to slowly draw out the 'Unlawful sexual conduct on a crowded train' speech or the dangerous IMax-like spin he puts on phrases like "SSSsussspicccioussss packageZZZZ"(insert the haunted house theme). And let's not forget his famous twist on why we are being held at 137th st. for no other reason than to maintain an even spacing between trains. He is a weekly reminder of why I need to get away a little more often from this city's quirks and urban circus freaks that rub me so dangerously thin. Random and interrupted New York City personalities have blurred the lines of all things sane for me and my fear of turning into that crazy guy that talks to himself on the train slowly but surely melts me into exactly that. And here I am, giggling to myself in the corner of the train like the dude I'm usually secretly judging. Oh...wait....another important announcement! "If you see something....say something!" He takes that finger nails dragging across a chalk board comparison to new heights for me and I'll never recover. He has the audacity to pick me up every single night and live with himself. I mean what are the chances that this one super annoying subway driver picks me up every day out of hundreds. Could it be that there is a system and a method to all the MTA's madness, much less and actual schedule? I have a lesson to learn here but I'm not sure what. I just barely missed the train tonight and thought to myself "Oh god I hope crazy voice was driving the train I just missed by mere seconds!" But wouldn't you know he was certainly driving the very next train that came pulling up? Why is my fuse so short I wonder? And why can't I escape this one city detail? It's not his fault that I'm so unstable. He can't help the fact that the tone and timber of his pitch makes me completely postal while people around me are openly discussing this dude's verbal intonations every time he opens his mouth. Osama Binladen was officially killed and dumped at sea along with my hope that he will realize that he's the only one that wants to hear himself speak. It's the little things New York. Like the one train stopping for fifteen minutes just one stop before my stop......so close yet so fucking far. I'm gonna get home and Harley's questioning brown eyes will burn a hole into my soul as if to say "eight hours...really?!" Daddies got to pay for all those surgeries to remove all the fucking three inch needles you swallow little lady! Emergency surgeries aren't free folks. There is a price on love and emotional assistance therapy and in fact it's unbelievably high.