Cars blow through stop-signs clearly intended for other drivers.
Vehicles choose to ignore the bright, white flashing of my light. They choose to ignore pretty much everything that isn’t themselves, for that matter.
I spend the majority of my nighttime commute wondering just how fast I can remove and employ the mace from my pocket.
I do not stop for whistles. I do not appreciate honks. And no, you may certainly NOT have my number, no matter how amazing you think my ass is.
If you’re actively not observing your surroundings and I avoid hitting you on the sidewalk, just be grateful and go about your business. Because when you choose to take this time to lecture a small, young girl at the top of your lungs on how it is a sideWALK and not a sideBIKE in the middle of downtown Hollywood at 10pm at night, I choose to assume you have the smallest penis in existence, memorize your face, and maim you the next time you cross my path.
Everyone knows how to hold their bike on the train. Except for me. And they make sure I know it.