Dear Person Who Refuses to Sit Next to the Window on Transit:
Good thinking chum. It’s widely known that those who sit next to the window are never given the opportunity to exit the train. I once found myself stuck in the window seat and ended up riding the line for five weeks straight! By the end I was fashioning outfits out of day old Metro newspapers, subsisting off of Starbucks dregs and those four or five french fries that always end up in the bottom of fast food bags. Lucky for me, I managed to drug one of the travellers sitting next to me (I slipped a crushed up packet of fisherman friends into his latte) and before the guardians of all things translink could catch me, I was out of there.
However, I cannot slag off the non-window sitters too much as this (has to be pathological) need is nowhere as bad as the people who smell as though they’ve spent the last month and a half living in the confines of Pete Doherty’s armpit.
Personally, my big transit rule is I never sit in any of the reserved seating, because if I do I always feel like a giant, fraud of an arsehole and am hyper aware of everyone getting on whom is actually deserving of the space. (Random aside: the first two suggestions for what I’m actually trying to write instead of arsehole are: areole and hawsehole. Wondering about the definition of hawsehole? I was too. It’s a nautical term for a small hole in the hull of a ship through which hawsers may be passed. TRUTH.)
Also, whoever is behind the remake of The Thing should be sent to Baffin Island for twenty years hard labour. SACRILEDGE!