On the heels of you almost murdering me this morning with your green Honda Accord, just wanted to make mention of the following:
- You saw the sour, oh-Lord-another-workday look on my face, I suppose? And wanted to put me out of my misery? Thanks, but no, thanks. Running me over with your car wouldn’t have accomplished, by any means, putting me out of my misery. Maybe a free wine cooler at a nice restaurant would have done that. Not a hit-and-run. (You so would’ve hit and run, lady. We both know this.)
- Couldn’t you have waited a second or two for me to cross the street before pulling in? Your fender was thisclose to my ankles. Seriously. It would’ve taken 3 seconds, tops, for me to get across. I’m famous for walking incredibly slow and being allergic to any kind of rushing, but I do rush when cars are nearby. Promise.
- So you sped up. So you almost killed me. Did you get to work on time? No, you didn’t. Admit it: you were still late. And you’re still ridiculous. So nothing came out of this morning’s activities.
- You saw me turn around to cast a shocked, almost creamed glare in your rearview mirror. You saw it and you know what you did.
- Like photos of this guy, I made a mental impression of your car and your black coat and your circa 1986 haircut. And I will remember you.
- Thank you for reminding me that late DC drivers who are woefully dressed like any female supporting character from a mid 1980s movie will try to kill me, so I need to be doubly careful when walking to work in the morning.
Still Alive, thank you very much.
p.s.: Watch your precious backs, friends and readers. There are shoulder pad wielding lunatics out there behind the wheel, aiming their vehicles toward your sweet ankles.