Panic attacks

It’s 3 a.m. and it’s snowing and my Uber driver cancels on me because he’s an evil communist. 

I seek refuge in the lobby of a high rise apartment complex, and the curmudgeonly doorman tells me I need to wait outside: this building is for guests and residents only. 

I mutter “fucking asshole” and choke on my tears.

Meandering down the slippery sidewalk, I check the Uber app and see I’ve been charged a ten dollar cancellation fee.

I vow to exclusively use Lyft in the future. My blood boils with poison.

“Why the long face?” asks a kind voice in a British accent. 

I look down to see a white guinea pig. I’m surprised he’s not shivering. It’s fucking freezing out. I want to put him in my coat to warm him up, but I don’t want to invade his personal bubble if he happens to be one of those prudish types. 

“I need to get to Columbus Circle from here, but I don’t know how. Can you help me?”

“I would but—“ 

His fur appears to be melting into the snow. All that’s left are his beady, black eyes. I think he must be dead because they’re no longer blinking.

It occurs to me that I’m next. My heartbeat is faltering. I feel like a passenger on a crashing plane. Only I’m losing control of my own body. 

I run into the street and flag down a yellow taxicab. 

“Call an ambulance!” I scream hysterically, “I’m dying.”

When I say the words out loud I feel very sad. I can’t die now—not when life is so full of pleasure and possibility. And my poor parents: they love me too much. 

“What are you waiting for?” I wail at the stunned driver, “I’m having a fucking heart attack!!!”

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