Why, God? Why?

Have you ever taken the R train to work one Friday morning, all sleepy and dreamy because, hey, it is Friday and only a half day at that? You're sitting in the corner (the designated "safe" space where it is least likely to have someone towering over you, hitting you in the head with their damn bag) and listening to your MP3 player, wafting in and out of consciousness because you seem to never get enough sleep and apparently you are transforming into either a senior citizen or a bear. You hear snippets of songs from Scissor Sisters, Jellyfish, Billy Idol (wait, maybe you are a senior citizen? You wonder if you remembered to take you Centrum Silver then slip back under the cozy blankets of doze). Once in awhile you awaken to check out the passengers, check for killers, muggers, pinchers, and wonder why people wear the things that they do. Like the girl with the fabulous pony tail and sailing outfit (all whites and even a sweater over the shoulders) who is grasping onto what looks like a souvenir rosary, rubbing the beads and what...? Which makes you wonder why you keep ending up with Catholics and further makes you wonder why, why, why, do they keep trying to convert you, sweet Jesus? And why is she rubbing a red, plastic rosary that looks like it came out of a Descending Claw machine at the arcade? If she's working on her sins, is that going to do the job? She got that thing at Coney Island, you are sure of it. Then, of course, you realize you are probably going to hell. Sigh. Time for more sleeping. You wake up when Mr. GymBag TooMuchHairGel dislocates your knee cap with his Rock Hard buttock. It takes only a few seconds to realize that he is also the Guy Who Likes to Stare at Ta Ta's because he's staring at every woman that walks onto the train. He's not glancing, he's giving a full scan, from top to bottom, with dramatic pauses at all the naughty bits. You wonder if he's got some poor, poor girl fooled into dating him or if she's maybe chained to the radiator at that moment. Then you notice that he's more than staring at some new victim; he's transfixed, he's frozen, he may drool at any moment. So you look, too.

Have you ever taken the R train to work one Friday morning, all sleepy and dreamy because, hey, it is Friday and only a half day at that, and right before your stop you see one of those women, those heart-stopping, catch your breath, unbelievably beautiful creatures that knocks the shit out of any notion you had of your own beauty or lack thereof? This the is the girl that makes the prettiest people you know deeply, darkly jealous. Her blond hair is perfect and carelessly pinned up; her tummy's exposed, flat, and tan (but not too tan); her face cannot be explained (it's too much, with the blue eyes and high cheekbones and perfect at every angle); and you can tell she'd probably be the second nicest person you've ever met and she probably volunteers all of her spare time, too. She is otherworldly and you are pond scum. And so is Staring Harry, sitting there with his jaw agape and clutching his New York Times like his mommy's Sunday dress. It is only the sweet release of finally arriving at your stop that shakes him from his daze because you have to excuse yourself, nudge him out of the way, and get the hell off of this train.

And you ask yourself, Why, God? Why? You just wanted to get through this half day. You could have slept in, taken the next train, or even fallen back to sleep after Mr. Hard Buttock sat on you, but you didn't. Instead, you've managed to witness some mythological, Unicorn Woman and now you are left struggling to think of reasons to live.

Then you remember.

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