Red clearly means go

For the record, I fucking hate cyclists.

I understand that hating an entire group of people (without personally knowing everyone in that group) is... um... fuck. I feel like there's a word for just general prejudice that applies to a specific group.....

We're just going to go with "nonracist racism". Because I don't really give a damn what color their skin is, or where they're from, or who their parents are. If they're on a bicycle, wearing spandex jumpsuits and helmets designed to make them look cool (but really only make them look even more douchey), then I hate them.

There's a reason for this, too, beyond my impatience when stuck behind one of them. Let me tell you a story.

Yesterday I was driving home from work. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cyclist. Because I work 9-10 hour days, and was in no mood to drive 15 miles an hour all the way through my neighborhood, and there were no cars in the oncoming lane, I sped up and went around that self-righteous asshole. I ended up just missing the light I was trying to make about a half mile away. So I sat there, waiting for my light to turn green. As the opposing light turned yellow and I slipped Honda into first gear, preparing for my green light (because you should STOP at red lights, and GO at green lights, according to the RULES OF THE ROAD) that son of a bitch peeled around my car, and jumped in front of me. He made it to the other end of the intersection as my light turned green.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am totally down with sharing the road and all that jazz. But I am NOT down with people on bicycles pretending that they're cars, and holding up traffic, and being all pompous and spandexy, if they're just going to ignore the rules when it suits them.

They aren't called The Rules of Driving a Car. They're The Rules of the FUCKING ROAD. You know, that thing that they're riding their wheely, leg-powered, banana-seated nonsense on? Yeah, that's right, cyclists. YOU'RE ON A ROAD. ACT LIKE IT.

I mean, Jesus, they could at least have the decency to stop at a fucking red light (unless a Marta bus is nearby and decides to teach them a lesson... but that would be the last red light they sped through).

You know what? If the cyclists REALLY just insist on never stopping for red lights, that's fine. I can learn to live with that. All I ask is that they ride on the sidewalk, where things that don't have to stop for red lights (like pedestrians, or joggers, or stray dogs) tend to hang out.

The most frustrating thing is that I can't just give the assholes a friendly bumper tap to prove my point.

Jerks. 

Thank god I haven't been murdered by a stalker in an orange Pontiac Vibe.

Yeah, yeah, it's been forever since I've written anything, god how could I be so negligent, I feel so guilt-ridden, blah blah blah....


Moving on.


I have an interesting, disconcerting, weird story to share. A few nights ago, I loaded my art crap and my 120 lbs dog into my car and proceeded to drive 30+ miles in order to visit with some friends of mine. About 2 miles from my house, I came to a red light. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cat-shit orange Pontiac Vibe. When the light turned green, the guy in the car just kept fucking with his GPS phone dick whatever, so I flashed my brights at him, as if to say, "Hey, distracted guy, I sometimes get distracted too, which is why I'm not honking my horn. But, you know, the light is green now and I'd like to spend as little time as possible with my Great Dane in the back seat, panting on my right ear, if you don't mind." 


The guy blinked his hazard lights at me, waved nicely (a.k.a. waved instead of shooting the bird) and moved on toward the interstate onramp. 


It took about four miles of highway for me to notice that this same guy had managed to get directly behind me in his gross, orange hatchback. I noticed because he flashed his lights at me. Again. I thought to myself, "Self, this is a bit odd. But, you know, he could have accidentally hit the brights. I've done that before," and went on listening to Dave Ramsey tell me how to fix my finances on the shitty talk radio station we have here in Atlanta (I love Dave Ramsey [despite his religious nonsense] and Clark Howard, but the other programs this station airs just make me feel argumentative and ornery). 


A few more miles pass, and then I hear a horn on my immediate right. I look over, and it's the same motherfucker, with an ear-to-ear grin, waving at me enthusiastically. I give him my best "I don't really give a shit about whatever it is that you're doing, and thought you should know that you look like a jackass" face, and continue driving. 


He then pulls behind me, flashes his lights, and then turns on his right turn signal (while still flashing the lights) without changing lanes. I keep driving. My thought process was something like, "I have another 20ish miles to go, as well as a 120 lbs Great Dane leaning her giant, toothy face out of the back passenger window. There's no way anyone would go that far out of their way just to harass someone, ESPECIALLY someone who has their giant dog with them."


Boy, was I wrong. 


The light flashing continues. The Pontiac Dipshit keeps pacing me on one side or another, and waving his hand like an over-enthusiastic kid waving at Mickey Mouse, before falling back behind me. I try speeding up, and then cutting cars off in order to get him off my tail, but he almost runs two cars off the road in order to maintain his position. 


I became increasingly aware of this maniac's presence, and of my inability to shake him. I mean, Christ, I'm not a fucking stunt driver. I maintain two to three car lengths between me and the random bastards in front of me. I never go over 80 mph, because that's when the You're Extra-Speeding fines and whatnot kick in here in Georgia. I check my blind spot twice before changing lanes. 


My safe driving skills are going berserk, but I am determined to get this bastard to back the fuck off. 


I finally make it to my exit (after changing highways, varying my speed between 45 mph and 79 mph, and attempting to get off at the wrong exit before swerving back onto the interstate). The son of a bitch pulls up next to me at the offramp red-light, and rolls down his window. My windows are already down, because otherwise the entire car ends up reeking of dog breath because Lucy is accompanying me. 


"You drive pretty fast," he says with an odd, maniacal grin. 


"I do. Because I'm not interested. Back the fuck off," I respond (probably not the most clever retort, had he been armed or something, but I was livid that someone had made me feel so helpless and I figured that were he going to shoot at me, he would've done it already), before rolling up all the windows on the passenger side of the car (much to Lucy's dismay).


I turn onto the main street, and the dickwad follows like a lost, mentally handicapped Rottweiler. I then take a somewhat unnecessary turn, and he follows again, flashing his lights and trying to signal me to pull over. I make another turn, onto the street that will lead me to the neighborhood. When he follows that turn, I start freaking out.


I call the friends I was going to meet. No response. I know for a fact that there are 2-5 people there, 2 being the worst case scenario. I have to decide what the fuck I am going to do about this potentially homicidal, maybe-rapist lunatic.


I make up my mind to do one of two things. I decide to try to lose him in the somewhat confusing neighborhood. If that doesn't happen, I'll bypass the house and use my handy-dandy iPhone to find the closest police station. 


I take a left into the neighborhood and immediately floor it. It was fairly late at night, and I'm familiar with the area, but there are a lot of twists and turns and blind curves. I try not to go above 50 mph, and I make my turns and end up at the house I was headed to. I turn out my lights, roll up the windows, and wait. I force myself to count to five, and then grab my shit, open my door and the back driver's side door (because Lucy still doesn't have thumbs), and yell at Lucy to get inside. She runs up to the front door of the house with me, and we burst through it, me slamming it behind us. I quickly inform everyone of what happened, and tell them that I'm worried that the psychotic son of a bitch may be roaming the neighborhood, looking for my car. They grab a sledgehammer and a baseball bat (which are conveniently stashed by the front door, along with a crowbar and a 9-iron), and stand with me on the front porch for a few minutes, waiting and listening for the sound of a poorly-constructed Chevy engine carrying a discontinued Pontiac chassis. 


Eventually it was decided that everything was okay, and we all went back inside. I would be lying if I told you that every engine I heard for the next few hours didn't have me staring out of the front window, holding my breath (when you're worried and paranoid, all engines sound alike). 


Never in my adult life have I felt so threatened. I have no idea if this person intended to hurt me because I flashed my lights at him at the red light, or if he was just looking for an excuse to murder/rape/stab someone, or if he was just interested in getting my number and completely socially inept, or what. One thing that I do know, however, is that I will never again leave my house without my asp.


Let that be a warning to you, loves. People that willingly buy orange Pontiac hatchbacks are morons, and ought to be avoided (unless you have one, and love it, in which case DON'T EVER FOLLOW ME FOR 30+ MILES LATE AT NIGHT AGAIN, OR I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU). 


<3

I know how the aliens in War of the Worlds felt

I have spent the past week more sick than I've been in a while. As a kid, my dad would hear me whine about how I HAD to miss school because I felt like shit, and then he would tell me that I could absolutely stay home... if I was missing a limb or had a fever. Well, I never lost a limb, and I almost NEVER had a fever. I can't remember the last time I had an actual fever (aside from my hospital trips due to infected kidneys). However, my entire spring break was spent with a fever of around 102. Bullshit.

I still have all kinds of muck trying to suffocate me by taking up residence in my lungs, but I'm determined to kick its ass the way deathbed cries of, "Hoax!" kicked the ass of the Loch Ness Monster (that poor, prehistoric bastard).

You know what sucks the absolute most about being sick? The awareness that anyone you actually infect is then your responsibility (once you're better and they're sick... like that ancient Chinese code where you have to care for someone once you save their life... right? That does exist, yes?). Because you know that they will always make their illness seem worse than yours (despite the fact that it's the same fucking illness). And you know it'll ALWAYS last longer than your illness (even though you have an immune disorder, and had the same illness they do... because, you know, they probably didn't catch an entirely different disease than the one you had, um, from you).

I guess that I tend to lose that nurturing instinct for a good two to three weeks after getting over being sick.

Okay, I'm going to go rest. You should go rest, too. But, you know, not too much. Because if you're feeling under the weather, fuck you. Suck it up. Quit your bitching.

All this aggression is making my lungs hurt. Mega owies.

xoxo