Destiny, tragedy, my morning commute
Sing, muses, of cruel fate.
Why are the most unbearable subway rides the longest?
When you are stuffed into the car like lambs for slaughter, the smell of a short man’s hair grease mere inches from your nose, then the train will stall.
When you’ve got a seat, a good New Yorker article in your hands, and Bruce Springsteen on your ipod, then the train just breezes along.
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The Great American Cooking Project
Notes from others: