OK, I get it. Most people don’t talk on the Metro. Those not ensconced in drop after drop of excruciating conversation (my perspective, of course) tend to float in a transparent bubble of existential wealth, existential squalor, or typically, fatigue.
So yeah, while most people don’t talk on the Metro, this didn’t stop a huge contingent of middle school aged girls from singing and dancing on the putrid flooring. But I’m glad they were dancing and singing. I’m glad they felt incapable of managing the egocentrism of adolescence, yielded to the irreverence of youth, and brought discordant smiles to overworked commuters. This is the stuff of classic outrage between generations.
Turning my attention away from the wrinkles of frustration spreading throughout the train, I focused on the lyrics of the song, which go something like this:
My love, my love, my love, my love
You love my lady lumps,
My hump, my hump, my hump,
My humps they got you
This revival imbues the girls with strength, and they sing on. And louder.
While other passengers expertly ignored this, or remained fixated in their existential bubble, I made a promise to never father girls.