I don't care because I like the abuse

I love NYC. I didn't really, until this last visit. But now I do. 

Thursday night found me frantic in Penn Station trying to find the next train to the Newark airport. To make matters worse, my friend noticed that my ticket said "cancel," and insisted that something was wrong with the ticket and that I should get cash in case the ticket agent wanted to throw me off the train and I would miss my plane. I rushed into the information center and asked about the ticket. "Your ticket is fine," the woman said, rolling her eyes. "And what about the platform for Newark?" I asked, "It doesn't say EWR anywhere." The man next to me was a janitor. He grunted, smashed his finger against the television screen, and roared, "WHATDOESTHATSAYTOYOU? ERW!" I agreed, and scrambled away. 

I didn't miss my plane.