The Hell of Burning Heat.

There are some days I wish I could make things explode with my mind, and today was one of those days.

I hate the Green Line with the heat of a thousand suns.
It doesn't matter which train I have to take, the Green Line never fails to disappoint me.
I had to wait for just over a half hour for an effing B train in the smelly furnace that is Park Street station. I watched five E trains come and go in a row--FIVE! Can you believe that? That's like some sort of weird portent predicating disaster, right up there with frogs falling from the sky and water turning to blood. When I finally did board that tiny tin can along with half a million other sweaty, irate passengers, I got sandwiched ever-so-snuggly between drippy-sweat man, Asian lady of a thousand bags full of sharp objects, and an overly eager anal rapist.



No really, it was fun being knocked around like it was A Night at the Roxbury all the way from Park Street to BU East.
I'm sure my asshole will heal in time.

Speaking of the heat of a thousand suns, has anyone waited for a train at Park Street or Downtown Crossing lately? Because it is the closest thing to eternal damnation you can get without actually burning in Hell forever. It's fourty million degrees down there. And it smells. And it's full of vermin. And everyone is miserable and not going anywhere.
If that doesn't sound like Hell to you, you must have some weirdo conception of what Hell should be.