Let’s start with the party train: within the first minute of your ride, you distinctly think that if the train breaks down you’d have about fourteen eligible cuties that you would not only happily repopulate the world with but also genuinely fall for. Everyone on this train could be an extra in Step Up. They probably are extras in Step Up. Everyone on this train looks cool and confident when sitting at a bar by themselves. Everyone on the party train is Tumblr famous. If any of those “What time is it? Showtime!” performers board a party train, all of passengers join in on the performance and everyone executes a technically flawless worm down the aisle.
Then there is the septic train: within the first minute of your ride, you are acutely aware of what every single passenger has consumed in the past twenty-four-hours and the answer is cigarette butts and the residue around the lids of mayonnaise jars. You immediately close your eyes or stare at a safe spot on the ceiling because you are pretty sure nine dudes have their dicks out. In fact, everyone on the septic train has their dick out. You are certain someone has an open wound on this train. You don’t see it but you just know. You can hear it. Beneath the train’s constant rattling and screeching and the sound of an old man signing Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” through a mucus-clogged mouth, you can hear the moist pucker of an open wound puckering against an innocent bystander.
This isn’t some fucking Robert Frost poem where you get to choose which train you board. No. You can only blindly step onto a train and discover your fate once the doors are closed. If, for whatever reason, you can’t instantaneously figure out which train you are on, please use this litmus test: if a clown walked onto this train right now and you took a picture of it, would you Snapchat that photo to your friends or send it directly to the FBI?
There are two trains.