A final kick in the pants

Goodbye, bastard stepchild of the MTA. Local trains don't actually have to go slower than express trains, conductors. Just more stops.

So, I'm finally moving away from the C and F train combo of doom, right? I'm counting down the days (3 more sleeps!) and thinking I'm going to get away without waking the sleeping beast of diarrhea-sick passengers and track fires...but no. This morning, I was on the train for a record 1.5 hours. But the most soul-killing part of it was the almost 15 minutes that we spent between Hoyt-Schermerhorn and Jay Street, in an un-airconditioned train car filled with at least 1000 passengers (don't argue with me). I'm a pretty sturdy girl, but even I felt a bit faint. As if I didn't get that the C train was giving me the finger, the woman standing beside me was fanning herself with a folded up newspaper and rhythmically hitting me in the face as she did it. I heard the sound of my will breaking (a damp splat, actually) and I didn't say a word.