There's an informal sniper motto that goes:
"Don't bother running, you'll only die tired."
I often apply that to the folks who bolt out of the one train I take, hoping against hope to make the two-minute distance fit the one-minute connection time.
But today...today today today.... the train I was going for, when I was at about the halfway point, decided to be just ever so slightly late.
So I ran. I fucking ran. Through the second rush-hour crowd, through the connecting station, down the stairs.
I ran as fast as my fat body decently could.
And had I been a little more bold, a second faster, thrown myself down those last stairs, I would have been able to slide through the moving doors rather than being stopped, like Agent Smith at the safety-less elevator doors, by a rapidly closing 9 inch gap.
But I was fucking panting like a Pomeranian on a hot summer day.
Shoulda known better.
As is, I got home at 21:37 instead of the possible, maybe, coulda shoulda, 21:23 pm.
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