things better left unseen
Hey you. Yes, you there, miss. You were on the Orange line yesterday afternoon, bound for Vienna, at Rosslyn. I sat down in the seat behind your row; you were standing, and talking to your man who was seated. I don't know what the hell you were talking about, because I turned my music up really loud to drown you out. Frankly, I don't care.
But you DEFINITELY crossed the line when you started discussing the sore/pimple/pustule that you had on your belly. How did I know you were talking about it, since I had by now turned my music to deafening levels? Because you saw fit to lift your shirt and show your man that disgusting pustule. You pointed at it. You discussed it at length. And, more to the point, you compelled a whole crowded Metro car to consider your dermatological ailments.
It is a wonder that I didn't vomit at the sight. Perhaps I didn't because I would have been ashamed to throw up on the Metro--even if you obviously were not ashamed to flaunt your open sore.
Please, ladies. If you're going to lift your shirts on the Metro, do it for the right reasons.
That is all.
But you DEFINITELY crossed the line when you started discussing the sore/pimple/pustule that you had on your belly. How did I know you were talking about it, since I had by now turned my music to deafening levels? Because you saw fit to lift your shirt and show your man that disgusting pustule. You pointed at it. You discussed it at length. And, more to the point, you compelled a whole crowded Metro car to consider your dermatological ailments.
It is a wonder that I didn't vomit at the sight. Perhaps I didn't because I would have been ashamed to throw up on the Metro--even if you obviously were not ashamed to flaunt your open sore.
Please, ladies. If you're going to lift your shirts on the Metro, do it for the right reasons.
That is all.