"It Could Be Worse."

 Shrug your shoulders.
Sigh.
Look on the bright side.
Laugh half-heartedly.
Scream bloody irony.
Read a book, a magazine or a newspaper.
Go for a walk, a jog or a run.
Spend time with an animal.
Sing in the shower.
Cry in bed.
Get fat with Netflix.
Fire a gun.
Shout at your loved ones, because they won't hold it against you and obviously forgive you.
Narrow your eyes as happy people pass you by.
Stare at the clock, watch the hands move.
Hear the time tick.
Send a text, a Facebook message, tweet, swipe right or left on tinder, like an Instagram photo.
Masturbate - once, twice, thrice. Ok, that's enough...for now anyway.
Go to Starbucks.
Go to the movies alone
Go on an adventure- road trip.
Get baked.
Get a tattoo.
Be ratchet.
Quit your job and move away.
Be a nomad.
Become a prostitute.
Find a millionaire or hell, a billionaire.
Make funny faces in public.
Take pictures of everyone and everything.
Do anything.

Just don't die. Cup of chai before the fatal suicide.

Lastly, remember. "It could be worse."
 

The other day I stood next to a guy on the D train. He was talking to his buddy about the dogs he owned. He was very proud of how well he trained his Pit bulls and Rottweilers to guard his land. He was also adamant of how the dogs served a purpose to watch and protect the belongings of their master.

His condescending rant went as followed: "Nah, my nigga. I trained them good. Them motherfuckers could bite your neck off. You can run, but damn well, I trained them to tear the flesh off a nigga. They BIG TOO! Nah, not big like FAT my nigga, BROLIC, You-know-what-I'm-saying? BROLIC my nigga. The ones outside are vicious. I taught em' well. They're nasty my nigga. Like cold blooded. They don't fuck around. The ones inside are nice, you can pet em' and shit. I got a new puppy now, Imma raise him to be a nice one. But, word my nigga, true shit, the one's outside they gnaw on ya bones my G. Shit, my bulls and my rotts don't play no games."

My stop came. As I left the car the name Michael Vick went through my mind. I grinned and thought, "Well, it could be worse."

On a warm Tuesday evening, I return home with my mother. Her operation was completed to the Doctor's and ours satisfaction. She felt queasy and gassy, she needed to lie down. There were few cabs in the area. For the ones that we did manage to see and wave at ignored us. This intersection near the highway was a bad wait spot, so we crossed the street for some shade and a better chance to hail a cab. "Hail a cab," as an atheist, that just makes me chuckle. We signaled to many cabs, but none stopped. When one finally did, the cab driver asked us upfront how much we were willing to pay. Taken aback from this question, my mother blurted out, "$12." I had already opened the car door as those words escaped her lips. The cab driver sighed and shook his head. Off he went without us. "Cheap fuck", I thought.

It took a half hour to find a taxi in The Bronx. When we finally did, we were in a for a fun and potentially dangerous ride. Our cab driver - a Latino male, was so engrossed in his phone conversation that he barely paid us any mind. If it weren't for needing to know our destination he would have never acknowledged us in his cab. The Major Deegan Expressway was backed up, so he took the slow local route. The trip was not a long one. The driver's phone conversation was interminable. This juxtaposed with our earlier cab ride to the doctor's office, where our first cab driver's loquaciousness was borderline torture. I felt bad for my mother on that particular drive because we did take the Major Deegan. It was backed up because of construction on one of the lanes. She was worried about missing her appointment. I, with my headphones and music, did not have a care in the world. I patted her hand lightly and smiled. We did end up making it on time.

Now, our current cab driver held his phone with his right hand to his mouth and steered nonchalantly with his left. His phone was on speaker. He was talking in Spanish. I tried to block out his conversation by having one with my mother, but to no avail. His words permeated my mind like a needle at a check-up. On the turn to the bridge, he asked us for a reminder of the address. My mother was on the phone. So I told him. Eight minutes later we had arrived. The cab driver asked us what sort of place this was. I told him it was a co-op. "Perhaps, he thought it was a hotel," my mother ventured.

Afterward, I made a protein smoothie that my friend Nick, showed me last month and read a book on my balcony. It was a fine day. I took a "book selfie." We survived both cab rides.


Last Monday, I called two women and sent out one text. Neither answered. The one text message was left unanswered. Having spoken to both women via text and on the phone before, I quickly assumed they were both busy that night. Tuesday night came. I placed my book down on my desk and walked to the living room to watch television and chat with my parents. I did not pay either of those women a single thought the rest of the night. The previous day I believed them to be busy. That night I knew I had been ignored. I went to bed after the basketball game finished. The Heat won. I knew, without thinking that I would never contact either woman again.