here’s the thing about truckers who try to run me off the road:
it’s a lose-lose situation. you lose because you have to live with the image of my body flying through my windshield, bones exposed, blood splattering on the ground, confused look of “is this a dream?” on my innocent “just wanted to get home so i could take a freakin’ nap” face, as my body catapults to the snow covered ground and my soul rises to the light of heaven. all because you weren’t happy with me going fifteen miles above the speed limit.
and i lose because i have to spend half my time in purgatory reliving how i made you feel every time i flipped off you or one of your probably inebriated friends.
so let’s make a deal.
you accept the fact that i will not increase my speed as your 18 wheeled death machine tries to rape the backside of my car with your 20 foot high front wheels, just so you can feel like the king of the road, and i promise to stop getting into the fast lane to pass you when you pass me and then, once i’m back in front of you, slow down to the speed limit.
if this deal is no bueno, i’m going to continue to call the “how is my driving?” number on the back of your fat steel ass and report you for being a lunatic who thinks that us ladies can’t see you gawking at us when you look at us in that enormous side mirror on the side of your door. close your mouth, loser.
aw, did baby get hurt?