Instances of Inadvertent Naps, Entry 91216

Disclaimer: The following post was transcribed from mad thoughts and small notes based on unintentional KOs aboard the CTA. It doesn't follow the usual format of the blog you see before you.

There have been a huge array of circumstances where I found myself being suddenly awoken whilst riding the CTA. Not in the sense of mysteriously finding myself there out of nowhere, but rather times when I fell asleep on a book, from drunkenness, out-of-the-blue, or the instantaneous KO that occurs when you drift away and close your eyes for merely a few seconds. It wouldn't matter if it was sunny or absolute darkness, the KO would still occur.

One night: After a lengthy shift at the airport as a PSA, I was ready to hop on the train and head the fuck home. My crib is only two stops away from the O'Hare airport, so naturally I would be awake for the short trip. But not this night, ooooo weeee! Once the weariness fully crept in, I took a seat and fell asleep, all the way passed downtown and onto the west side: this is basically an hour-long train ride, more or less. My unexpected nap had come to an end once I heard Racine being called on the PA. I knew I fucked up, especially after seeing 20+ missed calls from my mother and peers and several unread texts filled with grand anxiety.
"Hello?!" my mother opened, after I placed the call.
"Heeeeeeey Mommy..." I nervously replied.
"CRIS! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU!"
I give her the rundown. Tears soon followed and my guilt was heightened.
Guys, give yo mama a call. She popped you out, she could probably pop you out.
I finally got home after being stuck on that filthy train for a little under two hours. My mother was sure as shit pissed, but one long hug between us seemed to do the trick.
Note to self: Don't sit if sleepy.

Another night: Crazy shit. Utter disappointment. A mess in and out. Today was just another one of those promising-looking days where many things could be accomplished around others at a huge get-together, but it all ends in failed expectations and pure inner rage.
It was simple, really: meet up with a few mates beforehand and pregame, enter the premises of the party and get stupid, meet up with a potential partner for the night (or text one of the familiar side chicks for a previous experience to repeat), or find a way home.
Indeed, the opening hours were magical. We found ourselves mixed with a diverse crowd of art students, clinging drinks and sharing tales like a merry reunion of relatives. Some did their nasty business in the bathroom or the balcony, others were more in the present and alive, talking consistently with one another as their livers were being damaged.
Time had passed, and my inebriation was reaching its purgatory state, where I can't decide if another drink is due or God is telling me to ease my pace. The party was still in progress, but the night was getting old. I had lost interest in sleeping with someone tonight, for my bed was now I could think about. But it wasn't quite time: the alcohol was still wet, the smoke still burning, the music remaining harsh and playful.
My mate JT was ready to make his move and call it a night, but he was hell-bent on getting me laid tonight. "Come on, nigga! Just go talk to her, she wants it. Believe me and just fucking roll with it!" He was referring to the host of the party, Leah, whom I've known from a previous class, but she hasn't recalled remembering me at all.
"No. No. Fuck it, Jay, I'll just jerk off and cry myself to sleep." This was me joking; JT didn't catch on.
"My dude, I swear. I think I'm about to bust your shit up if you don't get your dick rolling into a sprinkler!"
Once a few more shots entered his system, he shifted his attention solely to his girlfriend - at least I think they are together.
Around three o'clock, the attendees were beginning to make their exodus from the get-together. Essentially every individual I knew had a definite way home, some with strangers and others with impromptu plans for a slumber party. For me, I just wanted my TV and my bed and no one else. So I left without saying farewell - hell, these fuckers were too trashed to probably recall any final moments the next morning.
The next O'Hare-bound train arrived after a 20 minute wait time, which honestly felt like an eternity when the mind has had too much. Of course, I knocked the fuck out with my phone in my lap, freaks all around, napping and hogging up entire seats for their dirty asses. I woke up at O'Hare, not my stop, and my phone still intact. Me as well. It was like I was never bothered, but everything felt like a slow-moving scene from a film's climatic event, where the hero saunters toward his love or home with a face of torment and mild satisfaction - epic music in the background as well. From the moment I woke up on the train, I felt powerless and depressed. This happens sometimes when the mindset isn't healthy enough for vices. It's happened when I got too attached to a TV show after killing a 24-case of Coors.
I got home a little after five, to PJs set on the bed and our little fan that was set to medium speed. Catching sleep that night never felt so special, so ideal. All I did was the standard routine for going to bed, except brushing my teeth: blankets over the body, one pillow for the head and another for the legs, and stripping away the scent of that fucking party by changing into the PJs. My head was a hot mess that night, nothing that I had anticipated came to light. Which is probably due to my mind's habit on changing plans back and forth within a short period. Things could've changed with Leah, or I could've partied more and expected a little spice for the night. But slumber's importance came to me in a nice fashion this night: when none else fails, just fucking go to sleep and stop whining.

Return of the Odor Stroller

Not too long ago I used to be employed at O'Hare airport as a passenger service assistant, where I would normally push wheelchairs for the elderly and the lazy, bound to receive tips on a $5 salary and working extensive and unfair hours to help those in need and those who were too goddamn lethargic to move themselves from one gate to another. While training, our master (who was using a power chair) pointed out a distinctive large black woman, who was way out of shape to the point where her only walking pace was approximately half-of-one-miles-per-hour and her raggedy clothing revealed spots of the human body that shouldn't be enlarged, like her stomach and her feet. She was seen laying down in the lower levels of the terminal, basically the floor for arrivals at the airport, on the benches where passengers would normally sit to wait for their ride or baggage.
Our master pointed out that she is here frequently, but I know her for being the Odor Stroller, for I used to always catch her on the Blue Line asking for cancer sticks, stinking up the place with a stench so strong even the complete strangers sitting near me were wielding the face of pure agony; a face so universal that even the "stench" itself sketches the reaction as you read it. I wish I had nothing against this woman, but for someone to constantly ask for cigarettes with a odor so intense it makes you'll be keeping your actual shit as a piece of furniture to remember the good ol' days of your dung's stench is kind of difficult to uphold.
Our group was proceeding forward with the job's training, but my whole attention was stolen by the Odor Stroller. It just shocked me to see her achieving slumber by means of public rest, but the effect became long-lasting when I would see her on the train and eventually in the Loop, maintaining her prevalent usage of cussing and ranting, like some other crackhead you spot on the train: "Wan't my folt, mang. Nah, dat is booshit," one would yap about, to no one, at a loud volume. Fortunately for me I was on the other side of the street, safe and away from a human so peculiar you can't miss her once you spot her on the street, slowly sauntering one foot at a time while she blathers on.
September 19th, 2016.

Instances of Annoyance, Entry 8116

Disclaimer: This entry is merely a written compilation of second-sized scenes that triggered agitation or aggravation whilst riding the CTA. It doesn't follow the usual format of the blog you see before you.

I've developed an addiction to a certain seat on the CTA: the driver's cockpit. This seating is made available only if it is unoccupied by any CTA employee, or if it is in the middle of the train in whole. It adds a little bit extra space, and it also adds the grand portal for transfers during an emergency. Yet instead it acts as an optional doorway for passengers to proceed onto the next car, without having to exit the current one at a station. It may be a test of irritableness since all sorts of strange beings seem to do this: pairs of paper-wielding seekers of funds for fictional basketball teams with forged scribbles, raggedy loners begging for that extra silver coin, and callous fuckfaces thirsty for the dark side of this world. The majority of these scenes take place when I'm at that special seat, for its privacy and space spread this comfort of mental relaxation - probably due to the fact that everyone else is behind me and not in my eyesight. I either read something or I play a game on my phone, all before reaching my destination, but the serenity of the atmosphere is immediately demolished by the intrusion of these freaks, who half the time will ask for extra fares or despicably pull on the emergency handle to transfer over to the next car. Why not wait for the next station to transfer cars? What's so special in the next car for you that you gotta impatiently transfer over instead of awaiting for the next stop? No doubt this is pure agitation, and no doubt that this borderline phenomenon will halt anytime in the future.
I can still hear that echo from the emergency handle, still haunting me after some dirty geek eyes me and proceeds with his worthless little trip.

Bernie and The Twisted Addict

My body felt like it was in a wavy stream of dopiness after I had just gotten off my shift and was followed by a local bum in a chair toward the LaSalle Blue Line stop. All I could think about was my bed and the fear that this wheeling shadow would run over me before I even hit the stairs. Hence, I was tired as all hell.
I got to the train just on time, and I took my seat next to a napping worker of sorts and across from an aging black man that looked oddly familiar; couldn't pinpoint who exactly he was, though. Due to my fatigue, I wasn't in any mood to pull out the book I was slowly perusing, and I wasn't interested in kicking pixelated ass in Contest of Champions to keep myself awake. Instead, wandering my eyesight off in any direction was the only solution, with the exception of Snapchatting a few mates.
Yet this entire time I was distracted by the worker a seat away from me, taking my whole attention throughout the trip back home. This motherfucker continuously scratched his torso whilst his eyes were closed, all noise blocked off by his metal-coated headphones; perhaps fully immersed in some wacky tune of demonic possession or hardcore addiction that are provided by hopeless vocals of a depressed garage kid. He also exposed his skin while doing it, but I didn't note down any distinctive marks since he starting coughing like he was bound to perform the Big Spit. Nothing erupted, just more weird gestures that included twisting his shirt like trying to drain all the water from a towel and giving his smelly ol' balls a nice check with the nails.
This is no exaggeration. This twisted addict did all of this, right before my eyes - and clearly not his. The aging black man kept on eyeing him as well, peering through his chiefly lids. Then it all came back to me: Bernie, my former manager from the airport legwork, was him, and he was en route to work. Not too long ago I used to get up at insane hours of the day to get to work, running into Bernie and apologizing for being so damn late, yet he would let me off the hook since he was aware of my retarded scheduling. Plus he was always kind to me, such an understanding bloke of adequate wisdom - not like my candy-faced supervisor who looked like a Trump offspring with herpes.
I got to my stop and acknowledged Bernie, telling him I used to be an employee under his management. I thanked him for being a great manager and shook his hand. "Thank you, thank you. I really appreciate that," he said, after showing a little glow.
"I hope to see you sometime in the future," I said, which was followed by another "I appreciate that" by him with gentle harmony of sincerity. I took one last glimpse at the help-needed passenger who adores self-scratch massages, now napping with his head hunkered over to the point where his forehead hits the head of his groin, if excited.
I then walked out, on the way home and not anymore worried by any strange encounters of the filth kind.
June 30th, 2016

World of Pocket Worlds

I stared out through the train car's window to mentally prepare myself for the weather heating up in the Windy City. I chose the wrong outfit for the day: plaid shirt, dark jeans, and shoes, when I should be bare fucking naked on a field of grass, taking in the rays from the sky. When my thoughts became boring, I switched my attention to the company in the car. All complete strangers with different agendas, but they are all conducting the same activity. Hunched over, lazily sat, or absurdly prepping up for a Snapchat shot, their minds were fully immersed by the worlds they held in their hands: the beautiful and torturous pocket screen. The world used to be a simpler place when tech was basic enough to keep up with life at a steady pace. Nowadays we can have our work, entertainment, social life, and hidden secrets all on one device. As convenient as it may sound, it also brings forth a new chapter in the lives of humans in pertains to being occupied. The outside world becomes so familiar and unwanted, that we resort back to that $700 plus slab of hardware, and we continue to ignore all else. But this argument has rooted since the flip phone came out, when bratty little shits would focus on tapping the right key and not the food in front of them, when class proceeded but instead wanted to see if Jessica was available to fuck them later in the evening, or when they're snapping a Cheeto-sized dick pick to their romantic interest in lieu of actually getting down to the real deal.
Literally everyone was doing the same thing (including me, I won't be a hypocrite this time) and no one even spoke or uttered a single character. I wonder if, back in the day, strangers would normally strike up a conversation with another unknown being just for the sake of avoiding boredom. That or they would flip through the daily newspaper or simply keep to themselves. No doubt that hatchlings still conduct the same thing, but they didn't have Facebook back in the 60s.
This could be a gentle rant, yet I fancy myself a phone as well. I just used the virtual reality set with a scene of visual synchronizations in tune with Lazerhawk's Electric Groove. It's quite the treat, just like the phone itself, and it'll stick to you like gorilla glue; but the terror of a roller coaster ride going straight down is the same feeling when you lose it, only it'll be one bitch of a drop. Imagine it, your whole world gone, snatched up by some bug-eyed freak with a tendency to scratch his neck, left behind by you because that shot of tequila forced you to break into bachata and leave your device behind on the open table, or obliterated by your psycho former girlfriend that you promised a marvelous future with.
What would you do if your phone was simply gone, broken, stolen, no mas?
What would these people do on the train if they weren't so attached? As each day passes, the dream of having everyone socializing without the assistance of an alter-ego behind the screen sinks lower and lower - it creates a much darker dream, one where we don't talk at all.
Imagine that shit.