| 9:27p |
PT Rage (and Meg Cabot)
"What is this?" I hear you asking. "An update from Carla mid-week? What is happening? Is she sick? Is she writing in her lunchbreak?" No, dear readers! The truth is, I am INSPIRED. If you read my last entry, you would know that I have been reading the blog of MEG CABOT, one of my favourite authors. Well, I have become a bit addicted to it. I have been sneaking reads of her blog during work, and I am going to write her an e-mail to tell her how much I love her work. Meg even uses the same colour scheme I used to use with my blog (purple and hot pink), until people complained that it hurt their eyes! Anyway, Meg updates every couple of days, and she is a professional writer. So if she can do it, I can do it! And I luuuuuuuuuuurve writing (in case you didn't guess). Writing is, in fact, one of the few things that I can enjoy in an untarnished way. Like, when I draw, at times I am very self-conscious with what I am doing. I can always hear my old design teachers in my head.
Anyway. On to today's subject. If you speak to me regularly, you will know one thing: that I suffer from something that I like to call PT Rage. PT Rage is this: Public Transport Rage. I spend about 3 hours each week day on public transport, travelling to and from work. And I get so, so cranky. I like to use my bus time to relax and do things that I like doing, like reading or knitting. But in fact, I find myself (extremely unwillingly) in the following situations:
> Having to listen to other people's mobile phone calls and conversations
> Smelling people who probably have not showered for a couple of days
> Trying not to be weirded out by the guy who makes bus noises (e.g. "Meep! Brrrrrrrrrrrrmmm! Uh! Uh!")
> Being squished into the side of the bus, or being pushed into the aisle by people who don't understand personal space
> Having to listen to other people's music
As you can tell, it makes me really cranky. When I was a idealistic school kid, I used to wonder why adults looked so ashen and deflated when they were on public transport. AND NOW I KNOW.
I get really embarrassed by my PT Rage, though. It is becoming quite severe. I am doing things I never used to do- giving people dirty looks, sighing loudly. I have tried to cure my PT Rage in many ways. I have tried to move to the front of the bus to avoid noisy people chatting at the back. I have tried listening to music. I have tried sticking out my elbows to create my own personal space. But nothing works.
I think my PT Rage hit a bit of a crisis point the other day. There was this business man sitting in front of me, and he was using the bus as his office. He was talking really, really loudly into his mobile, about things like meetings and clients. We were stuck in peak hour traffic. I was trying really hard to concentrate on my book, "The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" (which was really cool, by the way!). Finally, I couldn't concentrate any longer. I slammed my book shut, and raised it so that I could whack the guy over the head so that he would shut up. Then, all of a sudden, I woke up to myself. I dropped the book, and looked out of the window in panic. I thought, "Carla Gypsygirl! Are you about to hit a complete stranger over the head with a teen fiction book? Have you finally lost the plot?" I was ashamed and shocked. And this is all true!
Probably the worst part of having PT Rage is that it is a totally hypocritical anger to have. You see, when my very special boyfriend Geoff calls me, I hope that the commuters around me will be understanding as I chat to my one true love. When they give me dirty looks, I think, "Come on, you hard-hearted commuter! Lighten up!" Also, I know that there have been times that I have squished other commuters with jumbo artworks and bags of groceries. And I'm sure not everyone likes the perfume that I wear (Lolita Lempicka, in case you are wondering...which I can't afford to buy a refill of, boooo!).
Possibly, the best solution to PT Rage is buying a car. Or, I could get a flying carpet. Has anyone seen Aladdin? Don't tell me he's a fictional character. Because then that means that Michael Moscovitz isn't real, either... |