Dear Mr. Cab Driver (#3N39) Who Refused to Take Me to Long Island City

Dear Mr. Cab Driver (#3N39) Who Refused to Take Me to Long Island City:
Where do you get off? All I wanted was to go home. And while it was, admittedly, 2 in the morning and you had just dropped off some drunken hipster on the corner of Bedford and North 6th in Williamsburg and you were maybe really annoyed at having to work so late and maybe just wanted to get home to your wife and kids, your light was on. There was no “off-duty” light, or worse, a completely dark light – no, you were ready and willing to take someone somewhere – just not me.
See, my friend and I hailed you and I guess we just didn’t look like your cup of tea because you rolled down your window, heaved your chin in the air and asked, “Where you going?” in an accent I couldn’t place. You eyed us suspiciously like we might ask to go to New Jersey or Florida or even farther, like wherever you picked up that accent.
“You can’t ask us where we’re going, it’s illegal,” I said, grabbing the back door; it was locked. “You have to take us where we want to go,” I continued. My friend, who had faith in you, said, “Greenpoint,” and you sighed and you said, “OK,” like you were doing us a favor.
But what you apparently did not anticipate was that my friend and I were going to different apartments, and being tired and not wanting to be stuck in Greenpoint instead of home, I quickly added, “And Long Island City.” See, Mr. Cab Driver, I would expect for you (someone who drives professionally and for a living) to understand that Long Island City, though it is in Queens, is only a hop, skip and jump from Greenpoint, an extra two minutes, really, but no! Apparently you have some problem with Queens, Mr. Anti-Queens Cab Driver. I understand that the media portrays Queens in a weird light, and there are all those sitcoms with the fat, annoying husbands and pretty wives who would never really marry guys like that, and they always, always live in Queens in residential neighborhoods where you actually need cars and where grass actually grows, very far from the city. There are no lawns where I live, Mr. Cab Driver.
I live on a dark, deserted street in a converted factory building and it’s so desolate that once, when another cabbie turned the corner to my apartment, I could see him getting nervous cause it didn’t look like anyone lived there and he said, “So is this the part where you kill me?”
OK, so maybe that story helps me to understand your point, Mr. Cabbie, but still! This is your job! So as my friend and I stood by your cab in Williamsburg, you barked “No!” and sped off as my fingers were still gripping the back door handle. You were not nice. Just what do you think: Perhaps you think I am happy about having to live in Long Island City? Do you think it is fun, Mr. Cab Driver, being a small, dark-haired girl with no formal martial arts training who has to walk home alone down a deserted street on an industrial strip at 2 in the morning? Can you see where I might want some help with that?
It’s not like when I was a little girl, I used to daydream and say, “Someday when I’m older I want to live across from a factory just down the street from a homeless shelter and with a strip joint on the corner!” Not so much, Mr. Cab Driver, not so much. Do you think it doesn’t hurt a little every time I tell people where I live and their faces scrunch up like I just announced I have some sort of fungal infection? Thanks a lot, Mr. Cab Driver. You’re a jerk.