It's a pretty gloomy day out and I'll admit my mood matches the weather.
Some things I was expecting to happen either aren't happening or are happening at a pace I'd call glacial. Add to that the fact that New York's fairly freshly fallen snow is now a slurry of dog shit, bum urine, used condoms and carbon monoxide and the whole of my world, right now, is pretty foul.
It's enough to make you want to take a cab with a West Indian driver just so you can get in a screaming match.
"I said 83rd Street."
"No mon, you said 89th Street."
"Look, I know where I live."
"You said 89th, mon. Do you think I'm deaf in the ears?"
You won't win such a battle, you won't even be the loudest. But you will get some anger and volume out. And that's a good thing.
I guess there are times that life is like a cab ride with a West Indian driver.
You'll get tossed around along the way. Starting too fast and stopping too abruptly. With invective and general nastiness your accompaniment.
But eventually, with a little luck, you'll get where you're going.
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