subway squeeze

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Ever been that one guy on the train, eyeing a spot on the bench, like “i can fit there. Can i fit there? I can totally fit there.” And you take off your backpack and squat into the spot that you grossly miscalculated, and your curvy hip brushes against the middle of the little Asian dude’s thigh, and you over-correct so the meaty part of your butt – the bit beyond your tailbone, ya know- finds the edge of the bench as you slide back methodically, willing your hips to be either thin enough or cushy enough to allow the squeeze. And you’re wedged between a beautifully figured lady and a petit Asian adolescent with a pierced cheek, and you try to cross your arms over your enormous backpack, realizing your shoulders are just as wide as your hips, and there you are, scrunched over your stuff like an old witch or a leprechaun hoarding gold. And then, as you’re all snug like snails in a sardine can, your phone alarm blares, echoing in the quiet train, and it’s in your jacket pocket, wedged somewhere between your rib fat and your neighbor’s side boob. 

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