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!!!”