Stop Trying to Kill Me

I’m on my way to work. Going down Wisconsin Avenue. I get into the right lane to make my turn onto Sixth Street. There are two cars next to me, a big SUV behind the front vehicle. Suddenly the big black SUV starts coming into my lane to also turn onto Sixth Street.

I slammed on my brakes, hit my horn, and gritted my teeth as I tensed for the inevitable crash, waited to hear the crunch of metal on metal as the driver drove over my hood.

Which is what should have happened. There was no room for her in my lane, not between me and that other car in the left lane.

So I braced myself and… nothing happened. I don’t know how nothing happened because I know exactly how wide my car is, I know exactly where my hood is, and that driver should, by all laws of physics, have crunched my hood.

Did I have a guardian angel on my side this morning? Did that angel turn my car to vapour? Or am I really dead? Did I die in that accident and just don’t know it yet, wandering the Earth until someone finally checks their records and sees that I didn’t show up? I don’t know.

I just know I should have been in an accident, but wasn’t.

And that driver drove on completely oblivious to the fact that they had killed me.

And my day continued. At lunch, I went for my usual walk and was crossing the street when a car making a turn nearly ran me over. Then the woman driver, as she passes me, is pointing toward the flashing “Don’t Walk” sign.

So I did what anyone would do. I pointed back at her with my middle finger. I was in the crosswalk. I have the right of way. She is in her climate controlled comfortable vehicle.

She can fucking wait.

And please, stop trying to kill me.



3 thoughts on “Stop Trying to Kill Me

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