So I don’t usually complain too much (or at least I try not to), given the fact that I live in New York City. I know I willingly chose to live among the crazies. You can tell me all you want, big cities have weird people, you’re preaching to the choir, and I’m with you on that 100%. Does it mean I’ll ever get used to it? No.
Every day I see stuff that makes me wonder why I even have eyes in the first place. I mean, come on, people, I don’t need to watch you show your ass to everybody around. I also don’t want to listen to your ranting about how society is ill and every woman wearing short skirts is a prostitute. I don’t feel comfortable knowing you’re in the same subway car with me, because I have no idea what weapon you’re going to pull at me, the main reason being you don’t like my face. I’m sorry you’re nuts, but it’s not my problem! Leave me alone!
The worst is when I want to move at my pace (which is usually fast) and I meet crowds of frustrated commuters coming my way at full speed, ready to ram into me as if we were at a battle of gladiators or something. Like really? Where are your manners? Stop pushing me. I’m here. Yeah, so what, I’m still here. All this aggression makes me want to scream and run away, far away, to a place where there’s nobody to bother me. And I’m sure that the day I move out of this hell hole to go to a quieter place, I’ll complain that nothing fun’s happening.
You know, I think I really need a vacation. Like a long nice vacation. And then, I want to be rich. So I can move from this jungle to a nice little cottage on top of a hill on an island in the Pacific where I’ll get hit by hurricanes every six months. Sounds like a dream, right? Sigh.