This morning, I find myself completely out of breath and clammy as I board my big green chariot.

Our blog’s protagonist is out of breath, most likely out of shape, definitely out of health (new term!) and about to start taking off layers.

I might be coming down with some type of ailment.

I smirk.

I hope it’s contagious.

Unpaid sick days will do that to you.
I don’t really mean that.

I correct myself because three of my coworkers allegedly read my blog.

I congratulate myself for being so thoughtful.

Truth be told, I think you should only call in sick to work if you’re well enough to do something else.

I smile at the conference call I was a part of a few years ago while playing craps at Seneca Casino.

The callers loved my team’s enthusiasm.

I won a lot of money that day.

I lost it that afternoon.

I digress.

Thinking about my current situation, I recall a warning that a wise commuting friend gave me a while ago.

“Watch out for 10 months!!!”

Ok, so “friend” might be a loose interpretation, as this person was laying down on his blanket outside of Union station and appeared to be lecturing his Golden Retriever.

It really looked like a deleted scene from 1987’s Adventures in Babysitting, which is likely why I derived meaning from it.

I cannot help this types of observations.

I’m a child of the 80’s.

My biggest hope is that one day, this Go Train will appear in a night club and I’m forced to sing “Babysitting Blues” alongside Elizabeth Shue and all the children that are too old to require babysitting.

In my version, the bad guys catch them with minimal interruption and I’m singing a couple of sets.

The little girl who wants to be Thor –she can stay.

I have a thing for delusional young children, but cannot see a direct correlation.

Hmm.

Anyway, alternate meanings and symbolism is never wasted on me, which is why I’ve decided “watching out” for 10 months is an indirect reference to the time I’ve spent commuting.

No one told me I was going to implode.

None of the transit propaganda says that. But it makes sense as to why some people I see once on the train and never again.

It also explains the puddles.

Hmm again.

As I continue removing layers of clothing, I realize people would pay big money for this kind of show.

Somewhere.

Or, it would be a specialty channel included in an extensive cable package.

We could call the Public Transit Channel, PBC.

Or maybe we should call it something people could relate to and easily identify.

Like STOP.

As I look around the top level of the train, I notice this couple very much enjoying each other’s company:


I couldn’t bring myself to take a picture of them, because they are kinda gross and I still need to eat breakfast.

I’m not about the PDA life.

Of course, affection is necessary and appropriate in relationships, but when it’s annoying, bothersome and carnivorous, it’s becomes wildly uncomfortable.

As I take one most disgusted look at the couple, I make an interesting observation.

If only the Jays could produce such offence, we wouldn’t be 0-3 in the series.

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