I hate taxi cabs. I hate their existence, I hate their driving, I hate them. The best part of being a cab driver, I'm sure, is having a stupid number with which to call yourself. There you go, cab drivers are a number among better, more hardworking citizens. Yesterday I swore I would never get in a cab again. Extreme decisions are formed out of trauma, and I must say this is the case. We won't get into details about my car accident and screaming fit with cab number **** in the middle of Comm Ave., but it is evident that those 4-digit-number cabs really don't get the pick of the litter when the cab announcer is auctioning off pick-ups on the radio. And that's all I need to know. Rot in hell.
Nevertheless, I took a cab to class today. I can't remember the cab's number so now I just act shady around any of those white ones with the blue state of massachussetts on the side. I'll never know who it is either because all the drivers look the same and drive the same. This city needs to take group driving courses. I thought New Jersey and New York drivers were bad; turns out, we're good drivers but just like to go fast. Boston, on the other hand, could be driving blindfolded for all I know.
I've been doing a lot of being sleepy and not a lot of sleeping. I'm living in a haze and eating until I feel plump. These are the perks and the downsides of winter, I suppose.
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