July 9th, 2007


Tonight, as I was driving through a busy intersection on my way home from a long, hot day at the bookstore, some idiot swerved illegally past me on the right and around in front of me, causing me to slam on my brakes. Three blocks later, this same idiot started to turn right - then veered back into the street in front of me. Now I'm fuming.

And this is where the story gets good: The idiot turned out to be the next door neighbor I've detested for years. This guy's a cocky asshole with a thick German accent who yells at people from his window all day long (and who hit on me for years). I screamed long and loud at him. "Oh, was that you?" he blurted, as if it's somehow wrong to drive like a maniac only when you don't know the other drivers. I'm happy to say my loud and lengthy diatribe about his driving skills (ahem) left him stammering.

But it's not enough. Now I'm going to kill him.

...in fiction, that is. Yep. I'm going to make this strutting little dick die a slow and miserable death in some story, preferably something embarrassing, as befits his kind of nothing-to-back-it-up swaggering bravado. I don't know yet what story (or screenplay) he will die in, but it will happen.

I can be petty with the best of 'em.
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