All You are is Mean

As I emerged from the NYSC on 125^th, the fresh air washed over my sweat-drenched body. I had just banged out another amazing circuit and was feeling quite pleased with myself. It was such a beautiful day: It was cool, yet sunny and I woke myself up before my alarm clock had to. I moseyed casually (in my orange rain boots) to the subway turnstile, swiped my card and headed to the platform. The train arrived promptly and as I plopped my tired body on the seat nearest the door, I mentally went through my schedule for today. I had an art history class at 12:10 and a math class later on tonight. Finished mapping out my day, I scrolled through the pictures on my phone. I came across a picture of Rihanna, one I thought she looks pretty darn good in. I loved her outfit and wanted to replicate it. I decided to send this hot picture to none other than Naudie. She would enjoy it as much as I did. I started typing the text so I could easily send it once I regained service. At this point we were only at 110^th street. The doors opened and two boys stood, debating whether to get off here or at the next street 103^rd. The boy nearest me leaned over (I presumed) to look at the map of Manhattan and then placed his hand on mine. Before I could react the two darted off the train narrowly escaping the grip of the closing doors. Still confused at what had happened, I looked down to find my hands, empty. I looked across the train from me to an older gentleman who silently shook his head in disgust. His nod of disapproval was the only verification I needed. I had just been jacked (for lack of a better term).

Finally 86^th street rolled around and I left the train upset. Tears welled up in my eyes but I managed to hold them in. I walked into my apartment and kept thinking about what had just happened. I totally could have taken those pip-squeaks, I am certain I could have outrun them. Wouldn't that have been awesome, me chasing after them in my orange rainboots? I'd chase them then tackle one of them to the ground with the force of a 300-pound line backer. Damn it, can I get a do-over? I decided there’s no use getting upset about it. What’s done is done; I can wish all I want to change the situation but the reality is I can't.

Those hooligans must be real proud of themselves stealing the little white girl-in-the-orange rain boots’ phone like that. Why didn’t they take the big, heavily muscled guy’s phone? Pussies.

My only question left is Why You Gotta be so mean?