Of Taxi Doors and Cats.

Taxis are out to kill me. No, really.

Today, while entering the cab to Churchgate, I banged my face into the door-frame of the taxicab. I bet that cab had secret octopus hands that reached out to punch me in the eye. There’s something about taxis and me that isn’t right. Maybe it’s the blackish blue patch that’s appearing around my eye. These Fiat vehicles are either made for much shorter people or  I just have terrible depth perception. I’m really, really hoping that isn’t the case. I see myself cruising down the road in a fancy ass car someday. Dreams can’t just go to the dogs like that.

Speaking of dogs, I don’t know if I’m specifically a dog person or a cat person. While at this moment, I’d prefer to have my own cat – because they’re ohsocuddly and independent and wise – I don’t think I’d mind owning a dog either. Does that say volumes about me? What happens if I’m half way between the two? I’ve been looked at weirdly, more than I like, because of this indecisiveness. Are you judging me now too? In my opinion, both creatures are the cute and it’s not only difficult but also mean to pick one! Maybe it’s just a Libra thing.

Then again, what does it matter? Cats and dogs aren’t the ones out to kill me. Humans are. Humans with those meter-driven, greasy taxi doors.