I woke up feeling like it was going to be a MAJOR bitch day! I just wanted to punch someone in the face as hard as I could and then spit on them. It was that sort of day. A fuck-the-world-and-everyone-in-it sort of day. And on days like that, I should just stay in bed. But I didn’t… I got up, and continued to fuel my raging fire. It always seems that anything that can possibly wrong on days like this, does! Some mean universal trick perhaps?! The coffee sucks, I can’t find my shoes, my black pants are creased, I look like a train-wreck, I suddenly notice how desperately my eyebrows need plucking, and I remember that I have a meeting with somebody that I hate.
I got into my obnoxiously over-sized H3 and buckled up. I was ready to kick the shit out of the world and anyone who got in my way. Even my ride knew I was angry. I called the designer who had just soaked up all of my budget and sent me the creative concepts for my new e-zine. He had spent almost all of my money and I hated his concepts! They were horrible, they didn’t achieve anything that they were supposed to (and maybe I was being slightly unreasonable by expecting magic from a retard). He spent most of the conversation listening to me and (likely) marvelling at the sheer amount of swearing and yelling I was doing.
Just as I was tearing my (so-not-deserving-of-this-title) designer guy a new ass hole, one drove by me. A bigger one, mocking me and shaking his pudgy judgemental finger at me for talking on my phone while driving. My instincts took over and I promptly delivered him the one fingered salute, to which he retorted by making some blow-job “suck my cock” type gesture. BAD IDEA!
I quickly and erradically jumped into the left lane behind him, hung up on designer guy and began tailgating him so closely that I could see his nostrils flaring with fear in the rearview of his 1995 Silver Cavalier. He continued with his blowjob gestures through the rear view, despite the fact that I was obviously angry and a little bit unstable. I held up my one fingered salute as I accelerated intentionally until the front grill of my H3 rammed his Cavalier crumpling it and making major dents. I saw the shock on his face. Sickly, I liked it.
He quickly changed lanes and headed over to the far right exit ramp. I followed suit and caught up with him on the ramp. I accelerated again, this time reversing and repeating several times until the back of his Cavalier looked like a discarded soda can. I saw his hands stick out of his window and his door open. I waited with my eyes squinted and my teeth grinding relentlessly. He got out of the car slowly, and I revved my engine. For a brief moment he looked at me like I wasn’t human. Then he started to cry and began to run like Forrest Gump away from his car, keys still in it and everything. I waited for eight minutes or so, wondering if he would return. He didn’t. I surveyed the minimal damage to my H3 and laughed about it as I compared it to the crumpled Cavalier. I knew I would have to pay for it, but it was a worthwhile expense in my eyes.
I wrote him a check for $5000 and left it on his drivers seat with a note saying “Next time keep your opinions to yourself and suck your own cock!”