Driving to work today. Not taking the train. This means my future wife would have been on the train. A beautiful woman, in a good mood, primed for conversation. Ready to make the first move. What are you typing, she would ask. I would have been working on my book. Certainly not some bullshit blog post about some bullshit topic and every other word is “fuck” and “cunt.” No. I am writing a novel, I would have said. She would be impressed. Let’s get off in El Monte, she’d say. Take my hand and we’ll run up into the mountains. Forget about your job. We’ll find some place with flowers and just fuck forever.
Now she’s sitting next to an empty seat, or some hobo. We will both die alone.
delicioustacos 
The only thing worse than dying alone is living 40 years with the same woman. Marriage is hell. Trust me on this.
Is anybody truly happy?
What liberal, white guilt claptrap. The difference between you and the black woman is that she looked at you and said “fucking white boy”, but she’s not so riddled with race guilt that she went home and wrote a fucking essay about it.
I meant to post this on the previous one….
She could always get knocked up by the hobo.
He will fuck her in some Texaco bathroom. His dick is so covered in sores that it feels like one of those Ribbed For Her Pleaure condoms. She lives it. He will infect her with matching sores in her vagina and it will become like a bumpy custom Fleshlight insert. Then they will both have really good-feeling sex because of their textured genitals. She will get pregnant. She’ll take his hobo hand. Let’s go find a motel six, she says. Quit your panhaning job and meth habit. We’ll just fuck until our livers fail from HepC. We’ll become organ doners to troll some doctor because our bodies will be useless.
The hobo is a colored gentleman with no middle name.