2003-02-06

Let it be known that I am a horrid bitch from hell when I drink. And when I don�t, of course, but that�s just not my point right now. Last night I had a few pints with my recently-moved friend and her mother. Her mother is a lovely, decent person, and as such disapproves of profanity; so I spent the evening trying to keep my mouth otherwise occupied � hence, the drunkenness. Not my fault. I made it through the whole encounter without so much as a �damn� escaping my lips, and THAT is self-restraint right there, my friends. Fucking heroic, I�d even venture to say.

We parted ways around 11:00, and I flagged a cab heading in my direction. It pulled over, I got in, we started moving. About half a block down the road, a cab parked on the other side of the street honked its horn. My cabbie pulled over and said that I�d have to take THAT cab, since it was first in line at the cab stand. I protested that it wasn�t going the right way and that I was already in THIS cab. No. Apparently Mr. Cab Stand would somehow make life difficult for my cabbie if he took the fare. I said, �Are you refusing to serve me?� and he said yes. So, being the classy dame that I am, I said �You�re a fucking asshole,� and got out. Then I flipped off the cabbie at the cab stand for good measure. And then I flagged ANOTHER cab, and the same fucking thing happened. Fucking hell! If you can�t pick me up, DON�T STOP! And fuck you! Like I want to play the live-action version of Frogger on a busy, icy street, in the dark, in temperatures approaching zero degrees Kelvin, just so I can have the privilege of paying an extra buck for the additional mile Mr. Cab Stand would have to travel around the block to turn around. My friend and her mom were still on the sidewalk when I emerged from the second cab, hissing and spitting like a hellcat and flipping off all and sundry. I broke my streak of clean language while recapping my eviction from the taxis, but I think I�m justified: there really isn�t an effective G-rated version of �fuck that�. �To heck with that� sounds like you�re ditching Sunday School to go play stickball.