And he wept…

Subway criers are the worst.

You have now reached the point in your life where you are one of those people crying on the subway. Every few seconds you catch a glimpse from a stranger—one of horrified concern. Not so much for you, necessarily, but for themselves. It’s the morning rush hour, and they’re on the F Train with an adult male who is crying. Tears, snot, sniffles. The whole shebang. The truth is, it’s not serious. There’s just something stuck in your eye.

(No, really.)

Some angry and jagged morsel is tearing into your retina, bringing with it a rush of tears and attendant snot.

At the next stop, someone puts their hand on your shoulder, as though in a gesture of kindness. It lingers there for a moment, and even though you’re not really crying, it makes you feel better. “That’s thoughtful, if not misguided,” you think to yourself, concluding that not all New Yorkers are aggressive wangs.

Then, just as a smile starts to spread across your face, that kind hand abruptly shoves you and tells you to “Move the fuck in. And whaddayah doin’ standin’ in the way, anyhow?”

“People… amirite?”

“My gawd.”