If you live in DC and use the Metro as your main form of transportation like I do, you’re aware of the recent tragic collision of two Red Line trains that not only took the lives of nine people but also disabled our city’s main mode of mass transit to a most annoying degree.

Manual operation plus 35 miles an hour has made my three -stop  (Cleveland Park to Farragut North) morning and evening trips even more grating than usual.

Crowds of anonymous pedestrians have morphed into throngs of people so intimately located near my personal space I feel compelled to forgo foreplay and skip right to the proposal portion of the the rail ride.

For every hot young buck I get to press my D-cups up against in my attempt to get to work on time, there are as many, if not more, hygienically-challenged individuals who propel my propensity for motion sickness into hyper-drive.

I am a tiny woman and every time I’ve got to position my 5′2 flip flopped frame into some unwashed degenerate’s armpit, it pushes me that much closer to going “Falling Down” on all you dirty motherfuckers.

It’s called Speed Stick people and I implore you, spring for it. Please.

Understandably, I’ve had more than one Elaine Benes silent scream moment on my way to and and from home in the last several weeks.

Here are ten I needed to get off my chest:

1. I wear sunglasses on the Metro because there is no part of me that wants to make eye contact with any of you before my morning coffee. Unless of course said eye contact ends in outstanding fellatio before I reach my stop.

2. For all the “ladies” out there who opt for the orthopedic nurse shoes as their Metro footwear of choice, please, for God’s sake, invest in a pair of Havaianas Flip Flops or a cheap pair of ballet flats. Seriously, go to Target and fork over the $12.99 or I may have to lay the beat down on your dowdy asses.

3. Why do Lesbians insist on wearing brown pant suits one – three sizes too small? Who does this attract? Butch has its own special beauty, but camel toe ensconced in chocolate polyester doesn’t do anyone any good.

4. To the boy with the wavy blond hair in the white t-shirt who stared at me through three stops this morning, next time, grow a pair, and say “hi” to me. God only knows where that may have lead.

5. To the five hundred pound man who took it upon himself to turn around and back himself into an already overstuffed car this evening at the height of rush hour – I am all about equal rights for the obese, but if I ever catch you displaying such farm animal behavior on my  Metro train again, I will single-handedly remove you with my super human strength and launch you to the other side of the tracks. No more cheesecake, no more monster burgers, no more hot fudge sundaes, just my foot in your ass and the ride of your fat ass life. Prepare to buckle up.

6. Boys, I will be the first to admit, I’m a stacked little girl. And I consider most quick glances in the direction of my rack flattering.  But unless you’re a plastic surgeon admiring the God-given assets you try to emulate on a daily basis, bring those peepers to attention, learn some manners, and scrape your tongue off the floor. Look once, and then focus that gaze on something more benign. Burn them into your memory and move on. Save them for masturbatory posterity for all I care, just please, resist the deer in headlights mentality of your fellow neanderthals or I may have to start focusing my baby blues on your tiny little crotch for the duration of my ride … and trust me, neither of us wants to endure such embarrassment.

7. Let’s talk butt-sweat for a moment. I am the first to admit, I suffer from the affliction more than I care to admit. I am a Midwestern girl prone to moisture and the swampland that is DC in the summertime restricts my wardrobe to a ridiculous amount of 100% cotton black and navy blue skirts and trousers. Just once I want to break out that canary yellow skirt on the hottest of days and not be afraid to let people walk behind me through the Metro turnstiles. So I ask you, my fellow butt-sweaters, join with me now, and unite against the five percent body fat population who never seem to exhibit wetness in the nether regions.  We will wear pastels in hot weather and we will not be ashamed anymore!

8. The parents who let their children run ramshot on the Metro piss me off more than almost any other kind of public transportation patron. I’m a big believer in natural selection and firmly believe that at some point before you make the decision to procreate, you should have to pass all-manner of physical and psychiatric evaluations. Surely, the couples who choose to have children should have enough wear-with-all to keep their progeny from hanging like fucking orangutans from the Metro handrails. Riding public transportation shouldn’t be a right, it should be a privilege for civilized human beings and their non-offensive offspring. Teach your children some self-restraint and the world will be their oyster, if not, they’ll be flinging shit their whole lives, one way or the other.

9. Wonder if other Metro riders would join in on an impromptu dance party if I just took that first leap and turned my toe-tapping up several notches?

10. No one is so important they can’t wait for the next train.