Trolls vs. Pixies

I call it...Moo.

Dear New York, 

You, sir, Trolled me pretty unmercifully yesterday. Bad form. I hatelove you so damn much.

I could sense you were in a mischievous mood as soon as I woke up from a terrible sleep, odd dreams all week, and two of them regarding work.

(W)TF brought fresh hell for hours on end. I took a break at noon but only to completely butcher a phone interview. Oh, and nice touch on delaying those plans to unwind at my uncle's house in Marine Park with a last minute appointment for a wedding party...of three. 

Such gentlemen, too.

Oh what's that, Sky? You're going to chime in with your angry, "big ol' fat rain" the moment my feet touch pavement? Alright. I see how it is. And yes, please, pick the day I have no umbrella. 

What's that? A pixie came and brought me a cab? Unheard of, really. Especially in soggy times such as these.

Six bucks to take me eight blocks...pretty trollish, NYTroll, but worth it.

Then you just had to send a legion of trolls down into the Metro, didn't you, NYC? Problem, you ask? Why yes, yes I do have a problem with waiting for a Q train crawling down Manhattan and stopping on your bridge...twice. 

And nice try, but I already predicted you throwing in that sick person at the Atlantic Ave stop (I do hope they were alright though). Switching your routes to travel the R line? Force us all to get out and transfer platforms (see photo above), hmm? Why do you hate me so?

"There are train traffic delays for the B and the Q trains", trolls the dispatcher. 

Huh...yea? Huh...huh.

20 minutes.

Huh...

Theeere's the next Q train. Yes, please, to Kings Highway.

Pixies, thank you for taking over from here. 

The Q travels above ground from Prospect Park to Coney Island. It had stopped raining, and the scenery, lit by dusk, was transcending. 

Tree tops,Victorian homes under a hazey, pinkish, orange sky and the heady, verdant smell permeating the cooled air.

Alexi Murdoch supplied the perfect chill waves for the ride. And how befitting it is the way my Q train gently sways as it cruises along.

I arrive at my stop and stand in line for the B2 bus. I get a seat?? Keep singin', Mr. Murdoch. 

I hop off a few stops early, so I can walk to Uncle's in the last moments of twilight. 

Fireflies guide my way.

I am greeted with hugs and a dogpile seven children strong. 

Problem? Nope.

Relaxation Station continues out on the patio with salad, wine and a bourbon I've never had before - can't recall its name...there was an "eagle" in there somewhere.

So, NYTroll, I believe your pixies have you beat at your own game. They always seem to win.

Tauntingly,

Juliet