Photo by: Racheal Crowther
Okay, I get it: you're running late to work, possibly missing your child's soccer game because you're an awesome father or you forgot to Tivo Glee. I absolutely understand your taintless reasoning behind cutting me off.
It’s pertinent that my legal speed limit is surpassed by your sudden and luminous appearance in front of my car; five feet from my bumper and two feet from the bumper of the car in front of me. No, there wasn't enough space; however, nice try.
I’m also aware that after partaking in such reprehensible behavior, you feel the need to slam on your brakes, you know, performing a sort of slow-down apology. This definitely works because you fully receive my attention in ways you will never know. Trust me.
I also feel like this is now a better time than ever to tell you that your baby on board sticker isn't a handicap bypass. It doesn’t matter if you have twins or if you're Octo-mom driving her short bus, you still deserve a middle finger.
It's not that big of a deal anymore. I am moving on. Consider this closure. I mean, it's not like I was paying attention or anything. I was doing things I shouldn’t have been doing like applying lipstick and drumming my steering wheel to ghetto rap that I'm too white for. You sort of saved me from myself and I do love you for that. Talk about a brake light intervention.
I hope you see that this letter is out love and you grow from this. After all, I’d hate for you to never make it to your kid’s soccer game or God forbid, miss the next episode of Glee.
Forever and for always,
I never want to see your half-witted Honda again