I’ve always wanted a nemesis. One that makes my face flush with anger. One that can inspire a tapestry of language unsuitable for network television.

I found my nemesis when I moved to Washington.

You, Mr. Roller Bag on a packed Metro train during rush hour, are my nemesis.

Now, I know the old hats in the crowd who may stumble upon this blog will tell me that since Jesus (Allah, Buddha or any other politically correct deity that can be substituted here) invented the Metro, people have been dragging roller bags on the train.

If you’re dragging your suitcase to Reagan, you are not my nemesis.

If you’re dragging your Winnie The Pooh child-sized backpack to your job at Federal Triangle, you are.

If you’re dragging your Winnie The Pooh child-sized backpack to your job at Federal Triangle AND paying attention to the people around you, you are not my nemesis.

If you’re said dragger who’s hitting my shins, rolling over my feet, blocking my door at my stop and spreading out the width of the escalator at McPherson Square, you are.

I could be missing something, but how hard is it to carry it, really? If you’re someone with a backpack-sized roller bag (especially one that appears to be only half full), what the hell? You can’t strap that on like the rest of us?