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.

Ominous Rails, The Unnerving and Omnipresent Fear Aboard the CTA

There is no lie when I say that I'm slightly frightened to ride the CTA, especially the "L". It's been a boundless fear ever since I started taking the train back in the inception of my former high school days. For years I've been asked for help when a man couldn't stand on both legs properly, insisted on signing up for some unknown basketball program with possibly forged signatures and rehearsed speeches, offered marijuana through an apple (which isn't all that bad), been a pillar for a couple of bloodied-up and loose-minded fools from Wicker Park, and have sat close to a number of colorful and unusual characters - mine still being a bloke disguised as a holy man replicating Jesus. No doubt I've succumbed to their worthless requests and obvious false tales, but it's something every commuter is faced with when uncharted encounters occur.
The story of Jessica Hughes was the one that topped it, albeit behind a machete-wielding incident on the Brown not that long ago that shocked Chicago for a day when everyone seemed to forget, comes as a close second. 19-year-old Jessica Hughes, a student from DePaul, was attacked by a black couple who initially fronted up a damning request for her iPhone. They then proceeded to manhandling her by busting up her nose and leaving the victim bruised and traumatized on the train, until the train conductor found her later on. What hurts the most was the lack of assistance from the other riders. No one helped. No one did anything. They probably just watched it unfold like a grade-A dramatic scene where the hero gets his ass handed to him by two unexplored and shady motherfuckers with the intention on leaving the car with one of two things: Jessica's iPhone or her life.
It's instances such as these that make the cheapest mode of transport in Chicago ever more baleful. How come no one jumped in to help her? Two walking mistakes [the suspects] would have no match against a horde of Chicago-ready warriors, extempore justice seekers at the playground of society's sinister sorority of cheap film knockoffs and neglected individuals who believe that the world isn't fair to them. The world isn't fair in general, yet their conclusion begins with a taste for vengeance but the end is always the same: six feet under, ashes to ashes, gone without a trace, or at the hands of other humans who use a Book to justify their actions.
But just imagine that, a group of helpful passengers up against two - ONLY TWO - pea-brained assholes on top of a shocked 19-year-old future nurse.
The news would go crazy! Chicago would blow up the video all over the area on all media platforms, but the helpful band of riders would never meet such attention, such fame. Their futile efforts and pussy-filled inclination to Stand Down and Do Nothing proved once again that humans will never see the light of life, for the continuous waves of dark magic prevail the spark of humbleness. Jessica didn't deserve to be attacked. What was meant to be another simple ride on the Blue Line turned out to be another chapter in the CTA archives of nasty snippets featuring humans at their lowest points, minus the heroin freaks and tatted greaseballs, who show up like a family member you haven't seen in "How long has it fucking been?!"
No doubt will people resume to ride the CTA, but will they stand up the next time someone is being kicked in, or will they retreat back to their safety bubbles while someone's life is on the line, less than a few seats away?

May 1st, 2016.

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