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By Ben Breier, April 26th In modern times, when people no longer think about horses with horns that have magical restorative. 5 Dumb Things. I Love You And You And You. By Ben Breier, December 12th . 7 Sweetly Romantic Date Night Spots In Washington DC. Sponsored. By Ben Breier, June 7th Comment; FlagFlagged “Do you think I'd gross people out if I took off my shirt?” “Uh, no,” she said, in a “duh” tone that someone .
Pre-standers The Pre-standers are the very same jerks in grade school that would sprint with cheetah-like speed to be the first person in line to get out to recess. In the case of the adult Pre-stander, they desperately want to be the first person off the train.
Do you know when the appropriate time to stand up from your seat to exit a crowded subway is? When the train stops moving. This is the only acceptable answer. But the Pre-stander will have none of this: Ignore their faces and turn up Beach House as loud as you can on your iPod.
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You, harbinger of justice, are the human Maginot Line in the war of common decency on public transportation. The only way you can lose this battle is if a Pre-stander is able to brush past your defenses.
We are counting on you. Should you succeed, you will create a better life for the generations of subway train riders that follow you. Adding any kind of food source to this situation is simply asinine.
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Desperate times call for desperate measures. If a Dinner Car Denizen is nearby, begin by making retching sounds into his or her ears.
Is the cough biological warfare, or sustentation of your sanity? The Pole Dater In a perfect world, the subway pole is a polyamorous object — it is meant for six to eight people to hold hands with and keep from crashing into the strangers around them on a packed train.
Kind of like a refurbished laptop. I thinned out substantially, but my body dysmorphia still had me dodging mirrors that showed me from the neck down. I became tolerant of my body, but not proud of it.
Although my feelings about myself were closer to healthy, crippling depression would occasionally attack, bringing back all the feelings of antipathy I had for myself as a teenager.
I felt like I needed some kind of permission — the kind of permission you need before you give a pretty girl a kiss at prom. So, I asked my friend Ana, even though she had zero governance over my body.
With relatively little mental fanfare, I peeled the shirt off my damp hide. I probably blinded some people with the mother-of-pearl color of my skin, but after vocalizing my insecurities for ten minutes with Ana, my brain started to unravel something like this: I lay in the grass as currents of wind snuck up behind me and hugged my bare shoulders.
I looked down at myself and for the first time in years, paid honest attention to my frame without contorting my face into a Double Windsor of disgust. What if I never was? Can I get those years of my life back?