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Last night I did a crazy thing and went to the mystical place, East Williamsburg. Some will tell you it doesn’t exist. Others proclaim its magical existence. I leave the ultimate judgment to my reader(s).
At any rate, this involved taking the L train back from into Manhattan, whereupon I was left with two choice: get off at First Avenue and walk a ways, or ride until 6th Avenue, transfer to the F/V and thus have less walking about in the cold.
Got on the train with Kathleen, la la la, suddenly we’ve gone under the river, my ears hurt and we’re pulling in to First Avenue. I cry out in a panic:”Do I get off here, or try my luck with the F?!”
[Background: the F train and I have a very hot and cold (read: antagonistic) relationship. In past weeks we’ve been doing better but last Wednesday it all took a turn for the worse.]
Me: “The F does tend to hate on me.” I start to lean forward.
Kathleen: “It does kind of hate you, but also just doing its job.” I’m in that weird half-sitting half-standing place.
Me: “Well, it’s gotta do what it’s gotta do, I gotta do what I gotta do.” I dash through the doors with my Droid.
And you know, it’s true, the F train just has to hate sometimes. It cannot help itself. I accept this.