.dopey.

.like. .a. .kid. .with. .a. .crush.

The underground trains are actually really fun if you have nothing to do. I concluded this while, of course being bored, riding the whole things back and forth day after day. When the trains were at their emptiest, I keyed things into the plastic coverings over cheap advertisements. I know, I know, vandalism is bad, whatever. But there was no one on the metro because it was the end of the line, and headed to the outskirts of town where no one really lives, or works, and the sign was a Nike sign, so I felt like it was my calling to key it. After all, countless women in Indonesia are under paid because of Nike, I was doing my part in spreading the word. Okay, so a big circle over the Nike emblem isn't exactly saving an old lady, but it was enough to get another person to write 'kick corporate ass' underneath it, in block letters with a black sharpie, when he thought I wasn't looking.

My favorite part about the metro system is that everything is dark outside, but

inside it's super bright, almost blinding. You lose track of time if you close your eyes, or sit in the corner on a particularly empty section, so that you don't notice that it's emptier than usual. Our city didn't really need a metro. We weren't bid like those huge cities where you pack into metros like sardines. The most people you would see in the metro at a time in our city were about twenty people. And that is probably the absolute most ever.

I looked around at the graffiti, and my eyes passed over a keyed in 'nice booobs' with three 'o's, and wondered the inevitable question that I wondered every time that I saw it. Who's? I pulled out my sharpie, and walked over to it and scribbled as neatly as I could (which isn't very neatly) 'Whoo's?' The two 'o's was really just a joke to myself. I studied my handwriting carefully and decided that, despite my attempt at neatness, it looked like a boy's handwriting. Long and tall with quick strokes.

I capped my pen and sat back down, cross-legged, and adjusting my headphones as we pulled into the last stop, and the speakers announced that it was the last stop, and the metro would be turning around as soon as the passengers were finished boarding. I chuckled to myself and looked out onto the platform. The only person I saw was a homeless person sitting against a column with his head hanging in an abnormal position. I felt bad for him, but didn't know of anything that I could do for him. I was probably only a little better off than him. Spending my days watching people on a subway to avoid going home to my mother and sister who probably were glad that I did so.

A boy about my age, with hands crammed into his big sweatshirt pocket that flopped over his jeans came in just as the doors began to close nodded at me. "Hey. What's up?" he asked. In our city, it was common courtesy to, like, introduce yourself to every single person you meet on the street. Which is difficult because our city is huge, but somehow managed by the better half of it.

"Nothing really, how are you?" I said in a positively 'me' voice.

He did a half-smile-nose-exhale at me and said. "Nothing. Where are you headed?" He seemed to have recently done the math in his head that most people don't stay on the metro at the last stop.

"No where in particular, and you?" I said.

"Urmh. Work. I'm a DJ for the community radio station. Which really just means that I'm supposed to play nice music that old people like, and talk about politics, but since my shift starts at two o'clock, I usually just play whatever I want, and talk about whatever I want.

"Oh, I've heard your show before. Sugar-High? Isn't that the name. Wow. I never realized you were so young." I said, my eyes going wide. "I listen to it a lot."

He smiled. "Really? Cool. Do you like it."

"Well, yeah. Then I wouldn't listen."

"Right."

"By the way. If you play the kind of music that you like, you should play this:" I said, holding out my iPod, showing him the screen. "It isn't as bad as the name makes it sound." I said.

He laughed, which was a surprisingly sweet sound, and I felt myself developing a crush on the young DJ. "I'll keep that in mind." he said.

"'Kay." It was then I decided that, had I been acting appropriately, I would be blushing, and fussing over my appearance.

Which was tragic at best.

My life at worst.

My brown hair with a little pink stripe that I dyed into it just a couple of weeks before was pulled into a disdainful little bun, my bangs hanging over my eyes. I never felt the overwhelming need to push my hair out of my eyes, as I could still see. I must've been wearing, like, ten shirts because I didn't decide which one to wear that morning. Let's see: long-sleeved black shirt with a high collar, short sleeved white shirt under that with a higher collar because that was all you could see of it, yellow t-shirt, blue halter top mini-mini-mini-dress, jeans, and my floppy-canvas sneakers. I was a clash of myself.

But the DJ was smiling at me, and looking kind of dopey, like a kid with a crush. I thought back and after all, I had heard the Clash on his show. Maybe he was into clashes.