Down Here Pal!

It's not the morning commute that I hate. It's the people who do it with me that irk the hell outta me. Yes, I am 5' tall, but I am matter. I occupy space just like you big haired bitches and grown men with backpacks. (Don't even get me started on fatty who takes up 2 seats while she buries her head in a romance novel pretending not to notice when someone realizes that even if they were anorexic, they still couldn't slip into that middle seat, the 1/5th of it that's empty. Everyone in the vicinity of would-be Tracy Gold sympathizes, makes eye contact as if to say, "Yeah, we've all been eyeing that seat. We feel you, man.") For your information, I'm not a midget or a small person either. So, when you bump into me and say, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't even know you were there," that's not an excuse. And it's also a lie. Be honest with me, 5' 5" giant passengers of the MTA. Why don't you say what you really want? "Damn shorty, you might as well be invisible!" F-you. I'm gonna get pregnant. With a bun in the oven, knock me around then. Not so funny, eh? Guilty-ass Goliaths.

To the Opportunistc Gropers and Molesters, You Know Damn Well Who You Are: If you're going to feel me up, have some class and hand me a Thank You note before I exit the car. Though I support the concept of stealing from the rich to give to the poor, it wasn't my intention to unwillingly donate my ass and boobies.