R is for Robot

I've learned something about myself, and that is I have a proclivity for theories about things. Self-generated theories, preferably.
Okay, this is an obvious statement, because that's what people do, they come up with theories and explanations to make sense out of things. Everyone, I assume, has a proclivity for theories about things.
(Is life a continual amassing of theories to make one giant oevure? One huge collection of theories of everything? On one hand I sort of hope not. Because it would suck to feel like you have pretty much everything figured out.)
Observation/Generalization: No one expresses any sign of emotion when on the subway.
Theory: Physical privacy isn't an option, so hiding your thoughts by withholding expression is the last stronghold on "personal space."
I had a terrible day at work not too long ago--one of those days where you feel hot and trapped and find yourself in the bathroom for not the traditional reasons. I, being a novice, was really trying hard to keep the tears balanced just at the rims of my eyelids as I was riding the train back home to the BK, the beloved R train. Just two stops into the journey, I was treated to a medly of songs, including gems such as "If you like my body, and you think I'm sexy..." and "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy yeah," performed soulfully by a small, toothless blind man with an underbite. He swung his can back and forth with abandon as he progressed down the length of the train, collecting coins for his services.
I was facing a girl who must also be a rookie in this whole "We are robots" game too. She used her book to cover her face, because she was laughing (silently, so it was more like shaking). I had no book readily available to hide my face, which broke into a cry-laugh spasm. (That little man is funny.) Everyone saw that I was sad-amused.
I admit, I felt a little violated.