Sometimes I really hate New York. I hate it so much I want to scream and body slam everyone around me for just being around. I hate that it has rained for 30 days straight, and for some reason I never have an umbrella. I hate that it’s windy, so my silk dress can fly above my head and everyone on Park Avenue can see my pink underwear. And then some men can say creepy things to me and look at me that way like: Hey, I’m looking at you because I might be into you because I just saw your underwear. And now you’re looking at me. So now I’ll follow you, and look at your legs. I hate that I’m so trusting, that I step out into the street when it’s my turn to walk and almost get hit by a car or bike every time. Nobody acknowledges that we have turns. Turns to stop, and turns to go. I hate the automated voice on the subway that says there’s train traffic ahead, and that we should make sure to report suspicious packages on subway platforms. I’m not reporting anything.
After work today, this rage hit me and I can’t make it go away. I even tried two popsicles, a 4 mile run, and a new episode of Kendra.
