Thursday, October 15, 2009

Dear Driver,

I just got back from my wonderful west coast trip. I have a slight tan, a bag of Coffee Bean coffee, and distant memories of being in homes with more than one room. Upon returning to NYC I was almost hit by your car on the corner of 5th Avenue and 8th Street when you drove through MY walk signal. Little white walker man means I go, you stop. If the signal meant I was suppose to scream in fear of my life and then punch your car, then the little white man would be in said position. (Yea, I punched your car. I'll fight your car. You wanna go car? You wanna go?)

Not only did you almost hit me but you yelled at me. ME! As if I were there one at fault here. I screamed "shut the fuck up you fucking piece of shit" and waved my fists rapidly in the air. (Did I mention I was walking to get dinner after yoga. Yup yoga. You f-ed up my zen. You f-ed up my fucking zen). Then you drove away leaving me to look like the crazy one at the scene of the crime. And so it goes, car is jerk. Car has speed and can leave awkward street fight. Pedestrian is left to receive glares and judgement from bystanders. It's okay, I'm sure your lady friend in the passenger seat will lecture you this evening about what a monster you were to a poor, adorable, girl trying to make her way home. Or she'll bang your relentlessly cause your manly aggression at even innocent city dwellers turns her on. Ewwww, you're both gross.

Love Always,

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