To the woman on the train wearing flip-flops: I’m sorry I almost stepped on your toes. I understand that the danger may have warranted the mock look of pain, a mouthed ‘ouch!’ and a little hop-skip on your part. But flip-flops when it’s 48 degrees out? You should be asking people to step on your toes to see if you still have any feeling in them.

To the nice lady on the subway who wanted to get around me when I was holding on to the handrail: I had my earphones in and my music was probably too loud. I really couldn’t hear you.

To the man who tapped me on the hand to let me know that the nice lady was trying to get around me: Don’t touch strangers on the train, man. Social responsibility dictates that I should’ve said this at the time, but your parolee-esque knuckle tattoos made me reconsider such propriety.

To the kids doing the tumbling act on the L train: Yes, I enjoyed the show. Thanks, but I really don’t have any spare change on me. Really. If you get a new tape I promise I’ll donate next time. Promise.

To the man who pulled back his Daily News when he noticed that I was obviously reading it over his shoulder: That was wrong of me. I didn’t mean to steal your media. If you’re reading this, let’s use the same spirit of no-sharing-of-media and you can just close your browser window.

To the guy at Union Square with the length of chain that had about 14,000 keys attached to the bottom of it: What the hell do you do for a living? Because you are connected.

To the kid on the subway who was wearing all that hair product, and who swiped the seat from me and then shot me a shit-eating grin: Yeah, you probably need the seat more than I do. All the iPods your parents bought for you are probably weighing down that Mandarina Duck shoulder bag. Please, take a load off young gentleman. May I get you a coffee? Digestive?

To the woman who glared at me for three stops after I accidentally kicked her bag when darting through the closing subway-car doors: I really didn’t mean to kick your bag like that. It really was an accident. But that sure was a close one, wasn’t it! Also: The gaze is beginning to burn a hole in my forehead. That I deserve.

To the old woman in Chinatown who begged for change by yelling, ‘I want the money!’ I shouldn’t have laughed. I really, really, really shouldn’t have laughed. But even you have to admit, it’s a pretty funny approach. Will a quarter buy back my dignity? Ahh, good.

To everyone else whose path I trampled upon, and whose personal space I invaded: You’ll be happy to know I was late to work anyway.