Hey you! With the shitty earbuds blasting tinny EDM into every earhole in a fifteen foot radius as you block traffic by refusing to relinquish your precious spot directly in front of the door instead of moving five feet into a mostly-empty subway car. Yes, you, dumbass! I'm talking to you!

I knew you were trouble the moment I saw your stupid face in the door's window coming toward me as I stood on the platform waiting for the train to screech to a halt. There you stood, proudly, like a goddamn Easter Island head guarding the mysteries of time. As I stepped to the side of the door, waiting for it to open, I could see all seven of your brain cells firing wildly behind your almost preternaturally blank stare, trying in vain to comprehend the situation at hand. What is happening? Is this wall going to magically split in two? Why are people massing behind me? This is weird. Better not move.

And move you did not! The doors opened, the friendly robot woman announced the stop, people began to squeeze past you and you, you stood your ground. There was a time in my life when I would have admired this sort of naked disregard for the existence of other people, whose sole purpose in this city often seems to be making lines longer and crowds bigger. But like all 13 year old boys, I was pretty much an asshole. So! That is not a great sign for you. And it got much worse when the crowd behind you finally funneled out and I noticed that the car was mostly empty. Fields of seats, acres of standing room, and you, the subway door sentinel.

So I finally got to board, and of course I made sure to give you a shoulder bump that feels like a big tough-guy statement but is actually more of a passive-aggressive bitch move. I wanted to channel every frustration you'd ever inflicted on the MTA-faring public into a single excusable moment of physical contact, a shoulder bump infused with every ill feeling you've ever provoked in someone conveniently delivered under the guise of "oh sorry, just squeezing past." Perfect! So perfect. And yet just as I lowered the shoulder of truth and righteousness, you shifted ever so slightly, and my message of strength was instantly mistranslated as a glancing blow from a clumsy shmuck. Rude, you thought, and I boiled inside.

The doors closed. There we were, on the train, just you and me and a handful of humans on our way to work, or in your case, nowhere, because you deserve to be damned to a life without purpose or place or destination, riding the subway endlessly until you develop translucent skin and rickets. But that's later. Now I took my place across the car from you, standing nearby because the universe has a sense of humor and your favorite door is the one I needed to exit from in a few stops to make my transfer quickly.

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Immediately something was off. BLEEEEEE-brawmbrawmbrawmbrawm-brum-BLEEEEE. Ah. The sound of someone going deaf. At this point I want to clarify that I don't give two shits about your hearing. If you need to turn it up to 11 every day in order to get pumped before your shift at Foot Locker, whatever man, this is Spinal Tap. I just don't want to hear what your favorite Calvin Harris jam would sound like covered by a dental drill. My grandfather has poor hearing, in large part due to working very close to artillery lines during World War II. I guess you'll tell your grandkids you just couldn't bear to turn down Kaskade, since you just kept bopping your head while a tiny tin woodpecker stabbed me in the ears.

But you know, everything must end, including annoying subway rides, so as we pulled up to my stop I gamely stepped up behind you, and I didn't even blink when you shifted to the middle of the door (you finally understand what they're for!) to absolutely guarantee you'd be the first one off the train. I get that. That's prime real estate right there, and ostensibly that's why you've been guarding that spot all this time, against all sense and sensibility. You must need to dash out of here, to weave through the crowd and reach the exit and finally extricate yourself from this subterranean labyrinth. That's good, because I need to run downstairs and catch my other train.

The doors open, here we go! Ok! Let's go! Ándale! You take a step. People on the platform, only slightly more civilized than you, have abandoned waiting for this funeral procession and begun pushing into the train. Another step. WHAT THE FUCK. I want to just shove you and keep shoving until you hit a wall or fall onto another track, whatever comes first. Finally a third step, and there's enough of a gap in the flow of people that I can dart past you, and I do, I see you've whipped out your phone and are busy hunting for the faintest flicker of a signal. I sigh, and you shoot me a dirty glare.

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Well hey, guess what dickface, if you want to make a big fucking show out of claiming the spot by the door so you can be the first one off the train, how about you actually get off the goddamn train?? I realize this is asking a lot of complex thought from a person who clearly doesn't understand why blocking an open door is annoying for others, but still! What the fuck is that! It's clear you're moving at your own pace, and yet you feel some sort of primal need to inflict that pace on others (and if you're reading this and thinking the same about me, that's fair, but this is New York City). Just GET OUT OF THE WAY.