Seven Minutes

Hey, ignorant, obnoxious, yelling ape:

I'm not too hopeful that you're reading this. As a matter of fact, I'm not even holding my breath that you're literate. I'll tell you one thing, though. I hope you're traveling one day with an infant in a stroller, and some troglodyte whizzes by and knocks it over. And I hope the kid's okay, but I also hope that fucktard extends you the same courtesy I saw you extend to the lady you did that to this morning.

You're lucky the stroller didn't go the other way and spill that baby onto the track.

You're lucky the kid's mom was able to catch that teetering stroller before any real damage was done.

You'd better watch it, though. Sometimes, there are crazy people in these rickety speeding tin cans, and some of those crazy people are armed.

Barrel into one of those, and your luck just may run out.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

What's the rush?

Why do people feel the need to utterly trounce others just to catch a train?

And this isn't a daily train, or an hourly train, either.

They run every seven minutes.

There's no need to shove old ladies out of your way, not even pausing to watch her hurry-cane clatter to the ground.

Calm the fuck down.

There's another train coming.

It's not necessary to trample the other people around you who are also trying to get to work. Is there some sort of graffiti covered, urine soaked prize you're after? Are you afraid someone will take your favorite seat in a train on which there's standing room only?

Seven. Motherfucking. Minutes.