I have become an angry person. This is not to say that I wasn’t angry before, that I did not engage in youthful cynicism or that I did not shake a literal or figurative fist at some wrongdoing. Nowadays, if someone chews too loudly, I scowl. If I’m stupid enough to find myself in a tourist-heavy part of the city in August, I curse at the packs purposelessly stopping and starting without care. Gutterpunks play tug o’ war with their dog, and take up the sidewalk as everyone else is forced to walk into traffic. A man on the bus eyes the woman who stands above him, holding precariously over his lap a paper coffeecup; I feel for him, and then she sits next to me. Pedestrians about to cross the street look at their phones as they step off the curb.
Do I hate the lack of care in others, or do I hate that I care too much? Despite such sharp teeth and such silent anger, I’ll find a way to live through this city and never forget to say “thank you.” Thank you.