I sit on the 20 Rathburn bus on my way home from work at Richmond Hill. The air is too humid, the sun shines too brightly, the text of my book dances out of focus, and my ears buzz.
In front of me, a hip-hop song rumbles over the groan of the engine. I glare at the bun of wavy brown hair and the pink earbuds jutting out from the passenger’s ears.
Maybe I can tap her shoulder and ask her to lower the volume.
I glare at the screen of my Asus Transformer. I hate people who blast music on public transportation. I hate when TV volumes reach 50. I hate the clinking of spoons and forks and knives against ceramic plates. I hate troll-like footsteps. I hate “Dancing Queen”. I hate whistling. I hate the fragments of broken plates on the floor.