For five years, I've tried to figure out your tics. The way you stop in front of a multitude of green lights; why, in the middle of a tech hotbed, your website is made from macaroni noodles; your showing up only when you feel like it (and in those cases, so, so late). The harassment/assaults while your drivers look on. The stops with no schedules. Third Avenue. Somehow still, I moved to be closer to you, defended you to my friends, and struggled to make you palatable by downloading every podcast known to man.

But you know what? It's over. I bought a fucking car. Maybe I'll become out of touch, or a fatty, or wait half my life in traffic. Certainly I'll be killing the earth. But, Metro, the way you treat people is awful. You blew before the recession, you're worse now, and I'm not hanging around to see what this heap of shit will devolve into next.

—Anonymous