My Twin

It was a week before Thanksgiving when I encountered her on the public train. We were both heading toward the airport, no delays and at a decent pace. Before I focused more on her, my initial glimpse was star struck, as if I was staring into a mirror, only to see the female version of myself. She had long curly hair, evidently her hair was more lengthier than my own; leopard-stylized glasses; a book in her hands; striking beauty altogether. I sat behind, feeling a strong sense of familial connections, like a long lost blood line, blind to the family. Hence, it wasn't a romantic interest by any means. Instead, I felt like I had met my twin. No words were exchanged and no eye contact was met, merely the presence of me and her. What could have I said? Who knows anymore.
The time had arrived for me to depart, and I took one last glance at her, awaiting for the doors to open. The connection was temporary like a rare winter in the south, and I didn't know when I would see her again. My thoughts had ceased as soon as the doors had opened, leaving behind that inexplicable occurrence.
I named her My Twin, because she looked a hell of a lot like me.

No Wipe

Normally, I don't write about fellow college students, mostly because debbie downers on the sidewalk or on the CTA are far more fascinating than those with struggles at hand during their higher educational years. But today, while awaiting for a friend to depart from class, I had witnessed a fellow student walk passed me with tears dripping down to her chin, eyes opened wide. She didn't dare wipe away her tears, not one bit. She expressed her sorrow to the world, and nobody, including unfortunately myself, seemed to care. Only now as I reflect that I would have offered her a hug.
We all have those days: we tear up over something horrendous, so painful, that our emotional bottle bursts open without us twisting off the cap. We all know someone who's been through that tough shit. Sometimes we question our duties on what to do when they're down in the dumps, and sometimes the best that most of us could possibly do is hug them.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: whenever you witness this person, think of their torment, because we've all had those days. Whether it may be a stranger on the streets or a close relative, we all need that hug, from one human being to another.

Mo's Deadpan Request

The nicotine withdrawal would kick in soon after skipping a couple days of lighting up a cigarette, and I figured that it was time for a new pack. Unfortunately, it would be at a gas station up in Niles after I dropped off my brother for his sporting tournament. At this particular gas station, I inquired about the price for a pack of Marlboro Reds, dubious as to whether or not I wanted to make a purchase. Without showing any emotion, he asked for my ID, even after I merely asked for the pack's pricing and not the actual possession of it.
"I just want to know the price," I told him, yet he persisted, the bastard.
I gave up my ID and he asked about the name and birth date. He asked with a face like he had seen his own dog being mauled by a pair of vicious characters who had a personal vendetta against him, and I'd like to imagine that his former wife had cheated on him because he no longer "was a man". This cashier really grinded my gears, up to the point where I took my ID and left, finally saying aloud, "I just wanted to know what the fucking price was, asshole."
I went back into the car with malicious images, mentally cursing at the bastard for providing such a futile and rough time for a simple question.
I named him Mo because he reminds me of a neighbor I used to hate with a passion.

The Turtle's Desperation

En route to the airport, I was casually holding a pizza box that now only contained three slices after devouring half of it and giving away one to some grand hag before hoping on the train. A bum had caught sight of the box, which gave him this invisible obligation to approach me and ask for a slice. He had reeked of mad piss, a shaggy beard that was in deep need of a cut, and thrifty clothing from a year before today's. The scent was too strong, too vicious - I gave him a slice before he could articulate his request for a slice. This time, I didn't feel bad for him, as I usually do with the homeless folk. I felt anger toward him. I'm not well-aware of this man's past, but there seems to be a bleak ambience of avoidance that eventually just builds up after encountering a great number of bums. Half of them were sincerely asking for assistance, while the other half (the scum of the planet) merely adventured for cupidity and total advantage of the ones who try, at least to some extent.
I gave the bastard the cold shoulder and exited the train, no longer interested in being surrounded by that stench and by that failed seeker.
I named him Turtle, because he reminds me of those fucking Ninja Turtles who love pizza.