ink_n_imp | Metropolitan Transportation Authority; or my life as a sub(way).

Dear MTA,

I’m your bitch. I know this. I’ve never denied it. In fact, there have been times I’ve quite willing bent over for you when I could have saved myself a lot of grief and misery by just hopping in my car and driving. For you see, I’m in love with you. Yes, I confess—I LOVE YOU. I love that, IN THEORY, I can get to point A to point B quickly and conveniently at a reasonable charge and in a mode of transportation that is the very backbone and soul of the city I love. I love your history. I love your quirks. I love that you get me off my fat ass and make me walk. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I think of other cities I could hypothetically live in and I shudder, SHUDDER at the thought of being away from you.

But the thing is…the THING is…

It’s not working anymore. You’re getting a little too rough for my tastes. It’s becoming less knowing my place and feeling secure there, and more abuse. I mean, between the hikes and the cuts and the (ok, ok, PROBABLE) money laundering and the lack of service, I’m starting to think I should have listened to my mother about you. And the trouble is, I can’t leave. I mean it, I can’t. I’m totally dependent on you. Well, not totally, I do have a car after all, but it FEELS that way. I’M EMOTIONALLY DEPENDENT ON YOU. How you are running completely determines how the rest of my mood and day are going to play out. I AM WRAPPED AROUND YOUR MULTICOLORED NUMBERED FINGER.

So, more cuddling, less whips and chains and ballbusting; y/y? I mean, I’m all for a good old fashioned public transportation clusterfuck or SNAFU—but let’s make them a little rarer so we can draw out the enjoyment more. Absence; it makes the heart so much fonder of pain and misery.

And let’s not have them on Monday mornings anymore.

Or Tuesdays.

I could never get the hang of Tuesdays.

Cordially yours,

Nella