At 34th Street, an attractive preppy couple boarded and sat across from me, wind-tousled from playing touch football on the Kennedy compound or whatever. One of my napkins drifted to the floor and I couldn’t get up to grab it or else the Sakura would make my underwear sag like an old man’s ballsack. They looked at me like I was a littering asshole.
As a cute guy stood to get off at Port Authority, we made eye contact.
I’m halfheartedly masturbating, sort of. Isn’t that sexxXXXxy? asked my face.
I wonder if Crate & Barrel is still open, and why is that brain-damaged woman staring at me? replied his face. And, just for good measure as he walked by: I smell like the outdoors!
Many who write online long ago sacrificed their souls to the high altar of PAGE VIEWS. But this particular dedication from Anna is both disturbing—and impressive. You're masturbating on a subway for clicks. That's Internet journalism in 2013.
Also, if Anna were, say, Andy, and this article touched on the same subject, would the comments run like this?