I wanted to break in this new blog with style, class and dignity. But I’m wearing my best hangover today and can’t be assed, so I’m going to tell you about my morning.

Taking advantage of the management-free environment today, faded jeans and comfy Ug boots are the uniform for the day. I rocked into work 10 minutes late because under no circumstances was I rushing for any goddamn train this morning, but still arrived 20 minutes before the rest of my team. In fact, by the time they showed up I had swung my chair back, stuck my feet on the table and broke out the last copy of Unbelievably Bad, swigging longingly from a can of Samedi energy drink and still wearing my sunglasses.

Baby, what am I talking about? I’m all style and class, all the time.

It’s Murphy’s Law that the less you think you care, the more the world will send out its best morons. You know, just to show you that it’s better then you and no amount of bad attitude and sneering will beat it. Jean-Paul Sartre said it best, “Hell is other people.”

Some fat bastard with a box of fundraising chocolates sat next to me on the train and there I was squashed hard against the window while he’s pouring dollar coins into the envelope and nicking off with the chocolates. Why was I thinking that fundraising meant OTHER people helped you pay for something? Silly me.

I think fat is contagious. So I’m watching the fat man get fatter by the second as I try to become the window, and I’m in a panic because I can’t fucking breathe, and hell, I’m going to catch fat. And then he opens up a newspaper. Because of the box of chocolates on his lap, he has to lean slightly to the side to read properly, and the isle is obviously a no-go zone because people keep walking past.

Be the window. I am the window.

So I’ve got a newspaper in my face, and I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses because that baby would be a hell of a paper cut, and then his phone rings. An obnoxious ring tone at an excruciating level, and he drops the newspaper all over me, wiggles around to grab his phone and as he answers I stand up and ask politely for him to move so I can get off at the next stop. You know that pitiful look that dogs get when they’re after something you’re eating, and they’re hope is fading fast? That’s what this guy looks like.

Whatever man, I’m going to miss my stop.

As I get off the train I walk into a woman standing in the doorway, and she mouths off at me to get out of the way. How the hell are you meant to get out of the doorway when fantastic idiots are standing right in front of you and not budging? God forbid I need to get off the train! So I raise an eyebrow, shrug and walk straight at her, forcing her to the back of the crew of people cramming to get on the train. “Listen here, punk. Who the hell do you think you are walking at me like that?” Argh, morning bravado. “Just someone trying to get off the train. Sorry, but you’re not transparent and I can’t walk through walls. Excuse me.”

I’m not particularly civil to the general population first thing in the morning, but my one act of kindness is to make sure I walk through the gates really quickly so on the off-chance that someone behind me doesn’t have a ticket, they can follow me through. But I do so love it when people who aren’t very smart try to follow me “at a distance” to not draw attention to themselves, and get caught in the gates closing. I love it even more when said retard then follows me, slams into me, glares and hisses and then walks off.

It’s like those people who tell everyone who bought a train ticket that they’re “cock sucking wankers” when they get caught. The best one is when they get caught and then scream that they’re being personally targeted. Well yeah, actually, and it’s because you’re the moron who didn’t buy a goddamn train ticket. It ain’t my fault that you’re a pathetic loser. Shut the hell up and die in a fire of Chlamydia already.

But I haven’t even made it out of the train station yet.

In the 10 minutes it takes to walk from the train station to my office I had to deal with a woman berating a homeless person about being homeless, a bunch of school students walking in a line very, very slowly and a morbidly obese woman glare at me like I was a moldy slice of pizza because I just happened to be walking past her when she dropped her McDonalds breakfast.

When the lift doors opened and the confines of my office glowed radiant in the morning sun and the heavenly song of telephones played while a chorus of giggling sales reps sat cheerfully in a happy circle, I nearly wept in gratitude.

And then I saw my dispatch officer bent over a tangle of 35mm film, empty boxes and a broken film reel and that drowsy thump that only beer can give you webbed its way across my head, behind my eyes and down my back and I sighed and slid quietly into my corner where I promptly took my phone off the hook and flicked my legs onto the table.

There is no moral to this tale. But I do have a cold sore.