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"Scrape": This Fuckn' Guy Fucks Up.

Scrape
It was bound to fucking happen
And it was all my fucking fault
And I feel pretty fucking bad about it
And I still want to do something about it if I fucking can
Or maybe I should fucking let it go.
But anyway...

So, I'm riding down Broadway, on my way to work
(Yes, of course this is another fucking Citibike story),
And I get to one of those really narrow fucking sections
Where the motherfuckers are doing all this fucking construction
So there's only one fucking lane,
And there's this cab in the middle of the motherfucking lane,
But then it moves the fuck off to the right,
Which looks good for me, because I'm on the left,
But then it fucking inches back, I think,
Or maybe it fucking didn't--maybe I just never had enough fucking room,
I don't fucking know.
But I hit the brakes, 
But I still fucking pass him
And in so fucking doing,
The fucking handlebar of the motherfucking bike
Scrapes across both doors of the motherfucking cab.

And I'm kind of a dick: I look at it, and it's just a scrape
There's no fucking scratch,
So I ride on.
But the driver is like, "Stop! you hit my fucking cab! Stop!"
He was mad, but not like crazy mad.
(He didn't actually say "fucking.")

I stop, and he gets out of the fucking cab,
And I'm like, "I'm really fucking sorry--
It looked like you fucking saw me;
It looked like you were giving me room on your motherfucking left."
(I didn't actually say "fucking" or "motherfucking"--you get this, right?
'Cause I'm done with these fucking "I didn't say 'fucking'" parentheticals.
At least for today.)

He looks at me really fucking angry, but I'm like,
"Do you want my ID? I don't have a fucking card,
But I can give you my motherfucking phone number,
But it looks like it's just a fucking scrape.
I'm really fucking sorry."

He looks at the fucking tail light, and sees that it's fine,
Then he rubs his hand against the scrape,
He's trying to fucking decide if it's ok,
But he's taking a long fucking time,
And now there's a lot of motherfuckers
Honking their fucking horns behind us,
And I say again, "I'll give you my fucking phone number,
But we're holding up the motherfucking traffic here."

I was going to say we should go around the corner.
I mean, I wasn't going to blow him or anything,
But I didn't want to blow him off either.
I felt pretty fucking bad.
And he was pretty fucking nice about it.
And I wanted him to be able to contact me,
Just in fucking case I did do some damage,
Or if the fucking cab needed to be painted
Or some shit.

But he just said,
"Ok, you can go."
And I was like,
"I'm really fucking sorry. I really am."
Because I really was.
But I went.
Because what the fuck else could I do?

When I got to the office,
I went on Craig's List,
But I couldn't find an appropriate place to post:
"I hit your fucking cab
With a motherfucking Citibike
At around 8:15 this morning (10/30/2014)
In the motherfucking Financial District.
If you can fucking tell me
The precise fucking intersection,
I will pay for any motherfucking damage
I have caused."

But, so then I thought, should I fucking call
The fucking Taxi and Limousine Commission?
But I thought no, because then maybe fifty motherfucking cab drivers
Will be like, "fuck you, pay me."
I don't need that fucking shit.
But I still feel like I ought to do something more
Than just post this fucking poem.

I mean, something fucking tells me
This isn't going to be like the time
I wrote about that great fucking documentary
About the fucking New York Review of Books
And a bunch motherfuckers at the fucking New York Review of Books
Found out about that shit and read it.
(One of them even corrected a motherfucking typo: ""Silver," not 'Silvers,'"
she fucking said. Which of course I fucking knew. Stupid fucking mistake.)

But, so, it's not like as if today,
A bunch of motherfucking cab drivers are going to be like,
"Hey, check this shit out! This fucking Citibiker feels really fucking bad.
Jimmy, you should fucking tell him your cab is okay."
That's not going to fucking happen.
Plus, I'm pretty fucking sure the guy's name isn't Jimmy.
Just fucking saying.

But, so, anyway, if you have any suggestions about what I should fucking do.
You can post them in the fucking comments sections here,
Or on my motherfucking Facebook page,
Or twitter message me,
Or whatever the fuck you do.

But don't fucking tell me to fucking get over it.
I'm already fucking over it.

This isn't really about this.
I feel guilty about some other shit from yesterday
That I'd rather not fucking go into right now,
If it's all the fucking same to you.
Maybe another fucking time.
But probably not.
10/30/2014

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