Stop Touching Me On The Train, Son

I love the train, but I am open about being a huge hater while on the train. Everyone has train pet peeves; I have several. I hate the bastards who lean on THE WHOLE DAMN POLE RIGHT BY THE DOOR. That is prime real estate for me to hold on with 2 purposes: 1. Having an immediate escape route and 2. Not falling on the creepy dude sitting in front of me (in the event that the conductor had a few too many before his ungodly moleperson night shift, causing the train to jostle), and having said creepy dude I might fall on think I made an intentional flirtatious "oops."

I also hate having any form of literature read above my head. Like if you are not going to let me read with you, do not put me through David Baldacci crumbs falling on my head--or worse, New York Post feces I mean newsprint (can we really call it "news" print tho?).

But what brings out the worst Rilli Tho face is when I am sharing holding a pole pause with someone on the train and their hand slides down to mine, touching my hand and leaving me in perpetual fear that this unwanted train intimacy is only going to progress (I've had dudes masturbate in front of me. My commute is not a game.).

This is not "Ghost" (RIP Patrick Swayze).

We are not going to sculpt shit together. Keep your hand where it was originally. I've created a photo montage of what this looks like and feels like to me, so that you can either relate if this has happened to you or know the warning signs and create a defense plan in the event that this does happen to you. It starts like this:

 OK, so you already knew that I was riding the train, no Quad City DJs. This picture was a test. If you see something, say something. I'm gonna guess with a probable statistical significance of P<0.000001 that you were not about to report that suspicious backpack at my 10 o'clock.

Also, let's report the dude who volunteered to sit under the map. NEVER SIT UNDER THE MAP. I cannot stress this enough, particularly if you are a native New Yorker or just anyone who doesn't want people leering uncomfortably close over your whole bodice like it's OK cuz they "wanna see the best route" to 42nd Street. Fuck outta here; everything is the best route to 42nd Street.

 Aite, so we have someone with a Calvin Klein-model glare joining us on this train pole here. Not the best of situations, but still foreboding since you know there is tragedy to come.

OK, it's winter and your hand is sliding down the pole. That tells me that you have sweaty palms, which is already pretty gross, but makes me anxious about how much closer you're going to get to my hand before I have to mention something or glare at you and have you look at me like I was the first offender. Also, why are you looking at me?

Holy shit, where is my Klonopin?! You are OD close, sir. I am so sorry about your pituitary gland situation, but do you rilli not see where this is going? Because I do, and again, this is not "Ghost." This is about the point where I generally try to slide my hand down a little without having to touch the potentially lice-ridden head that is inevitably right underneath this safety net of height on the pole. Also, I bet you still didn't say something, even though you saw something...

This is the danger zone. I am now auditioning for Demi Moore's part and I had no intention of acting today. This is emergency preparation time.

Good. Now we are officially the cover of an interracial erotica tale. And sculpting a vase.

Son of a bitch. You are Ghosting the shit out of me right now. Clay isn't even my medium of choice! Fuck outta here with that. I know you feel my discomfort; back on up! At this point, I hope there is a bomb in that bag that you probably still didn't report yet.

From here on out, this is what it feels and looks like to me. Someone in the background is singing, "Ohhhhhhhh, myyyy darrrlllllinnnggg..." which makes me even MORE nervous because by means of behavioral conditioning, I am trained to think those oogum boogums (bad-guy ghosts) are going to come at the end of this movie (read: ride) and get me in the dark while I'm walking down the street. BECAUSE THAT'S HOW "GHOST" ENDS.

...Which is precisely what I'm going to start singing the next time someone Ghosts me on the train. Special thanks to Chadlibs for improvising this scene with me and allowing himself to look as creepy as he isn't.

RECAP: Don't Ghost me on the damn train! And stop bangin on de damn furnace!