Back off, I bite.

It’s Monday- which effectively means I’ve spent the day fantasizing about punching a kitten or lighting something on fire.*   Last night, my unconscious self must have thought it would be flippin’ hilarious to play a trick on my it’s-6am-are-you-fucking-serious? self. I found my phone/alarm clock wedged between pillows, which were lodged between the mattress and the wall.   It’s hard enough for me to wake up just enough to hit snooze for thirty minutes when my phone is sitting peacefully on my bedside table. When I have to dig like a motherfucking gopher just to hit snooze, the world had better watch its back.

I learned months ago that public transportation in Toronto at 7:30am is the modern day version of Chinese Water Torture, in that it will test your patience until you find yourself slinging your free Metro newspaper at the face of the nearest son-on-a-bitch that keeps bumping their oversized bag into your hip.  Plus everyone smells like bad breath and unwashed sheets.  Someone needs some Downy, stat.

So, to avoid the inevitability of being arrested for violent misconduct (that’s a thing, right?), I’ve resorted to biking to and from work, where I am free to flip off whoever the hell pisses me off, without having to then stand next to them in a confined tube, filled with rage and discomfort. Biking isn’t without its frustrations, but at least I don’t have to smell anyone’s coffee breath 3 inches from my face. (Unless something goes terribly wrong, but then the coffee breath probs won’t be the main concern at that point… but I digress.)

When I do have to resort to taking the subway during rush hour, I am rapidly transformed into an impatient efficient, don’t-take-no-shit-from-no-one, speed-walking bitch- and the rest of the world suddenly can’t walk in a straight line.  Either I missed one hell of a party last night, or you asshats need to figure out your left and rights before you leave the house.  If your excuse is that you’re still drunk, it’s 7:30am, buddy. We should probably just be friends. I’ll put up with your inability to navigate the subway system, if you’ll supply me with flasks and mints to cover the shame.

Somehow I’m back to talking about drinking.

Perhaps the main problem with the Monday morning commute isn’t (entirely) the cattle that can’t walk, it’s really that I’m wineless and I have a full 5 days to wait before morning drinking will be acceptable once again. And by acceptable, I mean ‘gets you dirty looks from parents with young children in the park.’

*I don’t actually punch kittens. Please don’t send me angry letters about animal cruelty. Kittens are super-awesome-furballs-of-joy.