crayons and sausages and such

It was Friday night at six and the train station was full of people hurrying to wherever. Our train came. It was -- and I quote the bible -- filled to the brim. This is one of those moments I am thankful for the separate car for women. The two of us made our way into the sea of people and each found ourselves a square foot of air we could squeeze in (a square foot of air? oh well, you get what I mean). We were quiet until the train started moving and inertia and discomfort got the best of us.

Me: We are like clothes hung in a closet.

C: Specifically, we are inside Paris Hilton’s closet.

Me: In the words of Paris, 'that's hot.'

C. But wait, clothes in a closet only face one side. That’s not an accurate metaphor.

Me: OK, then we are crayons in some kid’s crayon case.

C: Oh right! I like that.

Me: If it were my crayon case you’ll be the blue.

C: Why blue?

Me: Because I like blue.

C: Aww, that’s sweet.


Me: No, I didn’t mean to be sweet. You’ll be blue because I probably would use blue a lot and thus it should be shorter that most of the crayons. *giggles*

C: Yeah right. Let’s get to the next metaphor.

*Arriving at Ortigas Station.*

C: We are like sausages in a can.


Me: No, that’s not a good description of this situation.

C: Why not?


Me: Obviously because sausages in cans come in uniform lengths.

C: Oh right…They also come in uniform diameters

We were trying so hard not to laugh for fear of having someone’s hair, elbow or ear come in contact with our open mouths.

Me: No straight guy will be unwilling to trade places with me right now, what with five different pairs of boobs pushing against my body

C: Oh God, you didn’t just say that out loud!