You've had a wicked long day helping your grandma color code her crazy collection of antique teapot cozies, and you've definitely earned some "Me Time." In what is no doubt a sign from God that you're mad baller, you manage to score a VIP open bench seat on a rush-hour M train back to Rego Park.

You flip your camouflage flat-brim around to party mode, fish Candy Crush Saga out of your camouflage cargo shorts, plug in your headphones and CHILLAXXX. This is your golden fortress of subway solitude. In a way, that seat suddenly feels just like your old baby crib that Nanna saved in the attic that you can't fit in anymore during naptime (and bitch never shuts up about that one time she had to call the fire department because you got stuck in it).

That l0000ssser who took this photo was just jelly that you got to stretch out on what she said was an "extremely crowded" train while she had to stand and cry her way home to her thousand ugly cats. And the clown blogger who made a laaaaaame attempt to describe your inner monologue has no friggin' clue how demanding Nanna is when it comes to organizing those teapot cozies. (She has over 200, bitch!) All he does is sit on his bitter wack ass and judge playerz all day because he wasn't dope enough to get hired at Worldstar Hiphop.

Haterz gonna hate—nobody reads Teh Gothamoist anyway WHAAAAAT.