Monday, July 25, 2011
No. 3: I hate LA because…
Every morning I stop at a corner coffee shop, run in and get my espresso. Sometimes there’s parking and sometimes there isn’t so I just park in the red zone because it only takes a minute or two to do my business. The door was barely 10 feet away from the car and meter maid A. Sanchez could have peeked in and said “I’m about to give one of you a ticket.” But no. Instead he entered my license plate at lightning speed since it was literally one minute between the time I got out of the car and the barista alerted me of his presence. He said he wasn’t trying to be an asshole. I wanted to say, you’re right. You’re not trying. You are an asshole. Instead, my emotions got the best of me and I couldn’t hold back the tears. He said “you can go back in and get your coffee, just leave the ticket on the windshield.” What da fuck. I told him I just wanted to get out of there. He looked at me as if he had never seen a woman cry over a ticket. Right.
Or maybe I was just crying because, despite all my efforts in the past four weeks, I still love him.