Another Lovely Monday Night

Dear MTA,
 
I'm not sure what the hell is going on over there at MTA Headquarters, but you sure are pissing me off, misters.
 
The last couple of days has been a commuter's nightmare. Take the D for Dis Train Ain't Goin' Nowhere train.  The other morning, it was moving at the speed of a pregnant snail.  When it actually deigned to move.  It was packed to the gills with unsavory people, all of whom I had to stand very close to, and witness their unsavory behaviors. Such as the very fat woman with bright red hair and clown colored clothes with clown-like makeup.  Or the horrid Chloe Sevigny wannabe wearing blue patent leather boat shoes (oh how I wish I had taken the time to snap a cameraphone picture, so you can see how distressing this truly, truly was).
 
The B for Be prepared to Never Get Home train, as well was quite the conundrum the other night.  I spent 25 precious minutes pinned up against a doorway, as the train stood still on the Manhattan Bridge due to "a sick passenger at Dekalb", then "signal problems", then "police activity at Dekalb".  I'm willing to bet that the actual issue at hand was "train operator takes Heroin and keeps nodding off at the wheel", because every 10 feet or so, the train would jump into motion, and then suddenly slam to a complete stop, for no reason at all.  This was especially enjoyable when I was repeatedly molested by my fellow passengers messenger bag. I'm sure he didn't mind when I stuck my knitting needle in his eye to get him to stop his bag from feeling up my spandexed ass. 
 
MTA, you owe me $10 for the cab ride I ended up taking when I finally arrived at Dekalb avenue, which is a mere 2 stops from my house-and refused to stay on the train one moment longer, for fear of sitting underground for another hour, to go 10 blocks. I would also like to seek damages for the psychological distress I experienced as I stood on the corner of Dekalb and Flatbush, in the cold, and watched cab after cab pass me by, without the slightest bit of empathy, because they were anxious to get back to civilization-aka Manhattan-and for the one lone man, with no teeth, who yelled out "How much to fuck you in the ass?" from his 1979 Chevy Nova.

You'll be hearing from my lawyer.

Signed, sincerely,

Cheese