Most days I don’t think twice about commuting an hour and a half on public transportation to a job that’s 23.2 miles from my apartment. This is not one of those days.

After nearly four years, I may be used to the perks and perils of the reverse commute- always a prime seat on the train, though fewer train time options- but today’s trek to get to my train caused actual physical pain. You know those scenes in Titanic when Rose and Jack are clinging to door frames, trying to force their way past against the flooding tide of water? Well, now picture a 5′3 size 2 me doing the same (I’m serious) to get in the door of Union Station against the tide of people (who unlike the ocean, have been known to openly glare and yell at me to get out of their way).

I wish I could say I’m exaggerating, but my commute is an occupational hazard. Case in point, as I crossed the Adams Street bridge this morning, I took a sharp jab to the left bicep. The culprit? Some fat fucking whore’s cinder block of a fucking purse. It was so painful in fact that I winced and rubbed my now bruised arm for half an hour and the thing still hurts.

If that’s not bad enough, at the bottom of the Union Station stair well some bumbling fuck of a man rammed his way into me with such force (also the left arm) that my tightly lidded and freshly poured coffee spilled all over my hand and wrist. Again with the wincing and swearing, and nary an apology in sight.

The thing that really gets me about all of this is why are people in such a fucking hurry? They’ve already made their train and disembarked, they’re virtually “home free.” So what’s with the plowing into me part? What’s with the yelling at me to get out of their way? Don’t I still have a train to catch, a job to get to? While I may not really care for that job all that much, I’d still like to be on time in order to keep it. That said, I’m not willing to actually engage in hand-to-hand combat to get there.

Sometimes I really fucking hate people.