There's a guy behind me on the train typing away on his laptop like Arthur Rubinstein in a tux and tails pounding away at a Steinway concert grand in Carnegie Hall. Tappity tap tap tap tappit tap tappity tap! Every sentence ends with a flourish. He's 5 rows behind me and it sounds like he's inside my head. I don't know why it bothers me so. Part of it is just my aversion to ostentation. But most of it is just that he's probably got some good job that has full health and dental and he drives a car that has a working air conditioner and he's got this important thing to write up for work or else some chatty email about the trip to Viet Nam he just got back from; meanwhile, I'm staring at my phone and pushing buttons with my thumbs like it's some broken candy machine. And I'm tired.
Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T
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1 comment:
you're a good writer.
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