Sometimes
I hate this city. I hate that cabbies don’t seem to understand that by entering their cars I’m putting my life into their hands; I hate that in some twisted way they thing it’s okay to insult or argue with me and bring me close to tears when I refuse to go a roundabout way to my destination. I hate that they won’t turn on the air conditioning and when they claim that the credit card machines are broken, but they’d be more than “happy to take me to an ATM to get cash.” I hate that works takes priority to almost everyone but common decency and courtesy don’t. I hate that meeting people is such an effort, and tracking down once responsive people can feel like climbing Mt. Everest. I hate the daily grind - the métro, boulot, dodo - and never having time to do things for myself, even when it means paying my bills. I hate that I’m burning through money to live in an overpriced shoebox, and that after about three years of the same place, I don’t know a single neighbor, but know that the guy who lives above me is into BDSM - not because he told me, but because I occasionally have to listen to it. I hate that I have to call the doorman to ask my new next door neighbor to shut it because she wouldn’t listen to my earlier, polite request to keep it down. I hate being felt up in the subway by lecherous men, and hearing comments about me made in Spanish by hispanic immigrants who assume that just because I’m white, I don’t understand what they’re saying. I hate fighting off toxicity constantly in an effort to keep my own energy positive. I hate that living here makes me realize I never smile anymore, and that the checkout guy at Duane Reade calls me out on it when all I want to do is buy toothpaste and get on with my day.
And that’s my rant for the day.
