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

A Known Brat From Before

She used to be a partner with one of my close friends, back when we all went to the same high school. I had seen them together in the hallway many times, fingers interlocked and pleasantries given to all passing mates, including myself. Soon enough I knew it wouldn't work, so they ended up breaking it off; last I heard of her was when she decided to be called by another name - a male one in fact.
We had boarded the same train due northwest, toward the O'Hare airport. I paid zero attention to her, for I was focused on my world since the absence of earphones brought boredom to my journey home. After a few minutes had rolled by, the train finally came to my (our) stop, and we stepped out through the doors, up the escalator, into and out of the turnstile, and began to play the finishing touches on reaching home. She walked ahead of me, constantly looking back as if someone was observing her with bad attention - then again there was a small circle of teenage rejects that were filled with blabber that might've been harassing her. Or mayhap she recognized me, and didn't wish to communicate (thank god for that).
The declining staircase lead to the parking lot outside of the station, where she then angrily threw her pink lighter to the edge of the curb, a staging that I found hilarious and started to giggle a bit. I ignored her thus after. I was in no mood to trigger the brat's lividness anymore than what was being done. Thankfully she went into a different direction, relieving me from the quiet tension shared between me and her.
I'm not sure what sort of conclusion I can take away from this. All I know is that they're [teenagers] are still brats and they're easily agitated by anything, even if it's within their own minds.
As people have said before, time and time again, "Those damn kids!"
I called her brat, because she tossed her pretty lighter to the ground without any known reason. "Don't judge a book by its cover," but I always do.

March 18th, 2016

Infectious and Open, The Leg of A Zombie

During one of the colder days of the late-winter season, I had witnessed a battered and infectious homeless man amid the Blue Line train, sauntering in-between the seats with a noticeable limb that contained a filthy cast, now rendered useless due an open wound that surpassed the surface of his skin, and thus sinking deeper through muscles and inevitably bone, but not yet. It was about the same size as a softball, only now coated in puss spots, thin veins of dry blood, shiny patches of fresh bleeding, and the rim of the wound now clothed in dirty debris from the outside. It was an engrossing and upsetting scene. Another broken denizen, working mildly at his best to get what he can from the rest of the traveling commuters.
I pretended to be asleep when he came close to me. I was disgusted when I saw the wound up close. From all the inexhaustible snaps and films filled with gore, I was surprised to find myself wincing at the sight. I grinded my teeth like biting into a tough, kinghell of a steak; he was now walking passed me and ended up repeating on the same monologue he gave beforehand: "I am at risk for hypothermia...I am also at risk for amputation...God bless you, and have a wonderful day." His tiring journey then transferred over to the other car via the emergency door, a habit that many disturbing wrongdoers, miasma-infested roamers, and splintered rolling stones have become accustomed to in lieu of patiently waiting for the train to stop very shortly.
Some time into the future I saw him enter the same train car I was in, once again repeating the same process from before - I pretended to play dead once more.
This man had the leg of a zombie, a namesake completely inspired from obvious sources.