I’ll tell you what, I’m not even mad about this. I won’t even go into a rant about how there should be a system in place for destroying huge car-crushing icicles before they obliterate people and their cars. I won’t do it.

I wrote last week about how despite all of its pitfalls, New York is a city that knows its brand. Everything and anything can kill you here, and it’s usually not fun stuff. You want to die by exploding falafel cart? I’m sure that happens here. You want to get crushed by a crane? That did happen here. You want to get thrown in front of a subway? That happens all the fucking time here. You want to get demolished? Cemented? Gored? Slashed? Poisoned? Exploded? Run Over? It all happens here, baby. Of course you’d just be walking the same miserable route to work that you walk every day when a man sized block of ice (let’s be honest, at some point they’re not icicles anymore) comes down and smashes your skull through your pants; that’s just what happens here.

You want a city that’s well put together and doesn’t have an infrastructure that could kill you at any time? Move. I finished up a jog the other day (fuck me, right?) and one of those steam pockets fucking exploded out of the nearest manhole. It wasn’t like the manhole shot off or anything like that, but it was close: big puff of steam, loud bang, everybody else running across the street away from the scene, me just accepting that I’ll probably die a meaningless, anonymous death, and yeah you know, just the usual stuff that happens on any given day in Kings County.

This is New York: our subway sucks, our airports flood, our cranes tip over, our landlords ignore gas leaks, and our buildings drop ice blocks the size of boulders on your SUV’s; who wouldn’t want to move here?