The Journey Home is Where the Hatred Is

When going home from work I don’t usually pass by SM Megamall, but yesterday I was there because I needed to buy something. If I was to go home by my usual route, I had to walk 20 minutes from SM Megamall to the side opposite of Robinson’s Galleria. I was tired then and wasn’t willing to do all that walking, so I decided to take another way home. Since there was a Metro Rail Transit (MRT) nearby, I went there thinking that the train would get me home faster and - don’t laugh - with less stress. 

Big mistake! I soon found out that the MRT was the most vicious public vehicle I’d ever ridden on. The train was so packed, that not only was I standing, I was also sandwiched between unpleasant smelling middle aged… middle aged… err, what exactly do you call middle aged people with oily face, vinegar stench and  tonsured head? Whenever the MRT stopped, crowds bustled in and out of the train, and there were shoving and bruising. Everything was disorderly. I got tired out from being part of that chaos. Once I got off the train I didn’t find the train station therapeutic either. The place was hot, and the air felt and smelled like it was made of evaporated human sweat. I also found something about how people blank-facedly march their way out to be very sci-fi, in the creepy “this is how robots come out of the assembly line” way. 

And then I had to take the public jeep home. That sucked, because the driver drove more recklessly than someone under influence. He drove very fast, I felt like he was moving faster than the speed of light, with the accompanying psychedelic images of stars and swirls and spirals and weird shapes and blinks. I wanted to throw up. Also, the driver often stepped on the brakes very abruptly that the passengers were hurled off their seats many times. I think I was losing my mind. Evidence? Outside the jeep, I saw a girl riding on the motorcycle, and she looked so much like Liz that I almost greeted her. The girl also wore glasses, had girly curly hair and had a very determined look. But Liz on a motorcycle was a sight that’s completely an affront to logic; it would make more sense to see her riding on a magic broom. 

Anyway, going back to the driver, he nearly ran over a couple of pedestrians and he almost crashed to a bus, yet he acted like he was the gung ho Hollywood hero, and was swearing very loudly to his “offenders”. I hated his choice of songs too as they were the type of cheesy rock songs (which, doubtlessly, was by Queen) most drivers like to play to feel like they’re the most hardcore beings alive. And as if he wasn’t satisfied with making us uncomfortable, he had a devil-may-care attitude to everything, and he wouldn’t stop driving and let us get off his jeep until we shouted para five times and into his ear. 

When I reached home, I had no choice but to abandon my plan for the night, which was to draw vector arts that my brother needed. I also intended to write something, but my head was shot. You know what made the difference between coming home with and without a functional mind? It’s this one wrong decision of taking the MRT. So what I’m saying here is, be careful when deciding, as doing so unwisely can ruin your day. Also, taking the MRT is taking the hell train. Avoid it if you know what’s good for you.