Funky Asscrack, A Rather Forgotten Passenger

I had finished a forced read from a class and was now free to roam through new synth tunes I discovered. Comfortableness was the name of the game, much needed before heading off to another class, until a crop-top donning man sat beside me, reeking of expired cheese and a regrettable mannerism of smacking his lips like a bad blowjob. I was taken aback, this abnormal sex machine was popping his head to nothingness, casually looking up ahead at his ride while I stared at him with wide eyes. Not only was the bad side effect of lacking sleep getting to me, but goddammit his smell was of shitty cheese! I envisioned a flaming slab of cheese melting away on the concrete, oddly enough a naked man in glitter is slowly crawling toward it, fully enticed by the horrendous streams of green emitting from the food. Perhaps this gent would fit right in, yet this man beside me was black; the envisioned creep was pink and peeling.
I tapped him on the shoulder signifying that I needed to get up to exit the train when it got close to Western; verily I switched train cars after I noticed his freckled ass cheeks and mid-ocean ridge of an asscrack being shown to me unintentionally, but I looked at the wrong timing - I spun my head around when he turned his body to the right almost noticeably, only to be distracted by the openness of this creature. A seat had my name on it once I transferred cars, picturing the man popping like a broken bobble head and me wondering what the hell his story was about. I couldn't get a clear look at his special features, but the stubborn fuck within me told to go. Nonetheless, this was one funky asscrack.

April 21st, 2016

A Dull Fiend

After I had noticed a woman, roughly about my age, staring at me with interest, our minimal connection was short-lived once a bald fiend took a seat in front of her, climbing onboard from the Clark/Lake stop. I was ultimately distracted from this man, coated in facial artwork and a packing mean fucker of a face. At several instances, him and I would make eye contact, but I would fashionably look away as if I was merely surveying the area. But I wasn't. I wanted to study this man even further, but really all he did was sat there with a hand resting on his mouth, sort of like the pose certain chicks and amateur fuckboys do with their "strong hand" when taking a selfie.
I wish something had happened, non-violent-wise. Talk on the phone, look down and reflect on your possible slimy life. Look in the mirror and realize how ridiculous you look with those tattoos around your eyes. If only I had known what they meant or stood for, and taking a seat closer to him was out of the question since the remaining seats by this time were now occupied by other train riders.
Lost Years was blasting through eardrums when I started to question the small encounter. Perhaps it was a kind reminder to not get artwork done on your face, or avoid going bald. But then the darker reflections were pouring in: Stay away from the muck, and you won't end up like him; don't stroll along life on a solitary route, and eventually the good of things will be seen more clearly; talking to him would change everything, but I'm no journalist, even though I have to tendency to palaver with strangers - it really all depends on how the mood sets in.
Once the train got to Damen, the dull fiend had gotten up and went through the doors. That was it. Nothing special had happened, but it's hard to forget a face that was laced with poorly chosen art on the way home.

April 9th, 2016

Moronic Care For A Piece of Hardware

One of the brothers I was mentally portraying was getting heated during an argument with his younger sibling, who slept with the former's wife while being stationed in "Vit Nam". As soon as I got to the physical actions, a black man in stylishly ripped jeans and a fluffy coat dropped his pocket screen onto the train's floor level. I was ultimately distracted, but I quickly retreated back onto the one-scene packet, something for my Scene Study course at school.
After a third read-through, the bloke in front of me dropped his device once again, this time looking back toward me to see if anyone was witnessing his embarrassment, which I certainly was. He revealed to me inadvertently that he was trashed in piercings, a shredded beard, and a small rasta hat - completely justified along with his shitty light-colored jeans. He then picked up his phone and proceeded to listen to music using oversized headphones.
Usually as humans who don't possess some aspect of physical disability are shock prone to dropping their devices, that is if they're not clumsy. After it happens a couple of times we tend to concentrate on its safety a bit more, but not for the case of Reg E., derived from a television character due to his similar facial features that resemble Reg E. Cathey. In Reg. E's case, the abundantly-owned piece of hardware met the ground several times rather than a couple. And once he got up for the stop on California, I noticed that he intricately entangled the headphones' wire in-and-out of his shirt and coat's collar and his neck, leaving the male tip (the jack itself) to hang loose like an article of clothing swung over a chair. No wonder he dropped the damn thing! Perhaps he was trying to be different, a problem many humans seem to face.
There is no lesson to be taught here, only shown: Don't wear your headphones' wire like a spaghetti-stringed accessory.
I named him Reg E. for reasons mentioned above.

April 5th, 2016