Bad Driver: 9Z***(*?)

I haven't had as bad, nor as scary, a driver in a long while as this motherfucker.  Guy, who I think was in a black muscle car, tears past and cuts in front of me while I began my way back home.  We run up to an intersection that's blocking our lane.  I cut over to get past what appears to be an accident, but this asshole cuts in front of me again, trying to skitter past me without putting his turn signal on.

I honk the horn and that white piece of shit really went off.  He drove past me, but he was gesturing with his left arm (with tattooed sleeve) all the way to the intersection where I wanted to take a right.  But he was on that lane and taking a right, so I decided to go straight.  But then this crazy-ass fuck drives onto my lane ... so I cross over to the other lane so I can take a right ... but then this guy goes back to the turn lane ... so I have to go back to the other lane so I can go straight, and thankfully other cars came inbetween me and that psycho so he couldn't go back on my lane.  Didn't stop him from stopping and continuing to yell at me as I drove past.

Still shook.  I doubt that I'll see him again ... but I can't guarantee that knowing my luck.  I'm really fearful that if I leave work the same time today as I did yesterday, I'll run into him again.  I'm so paranoid that I'm seriously thinking about going home on a different route, just to make sure.

Anyway ... so it's a white guy with tattoos covering his whole left arm.  He was driving (I think) a black muscle car with a special Minnesota license plate.  I think the plate had a fish on it, I don't know, but I'm sure it's one of those special Critical Habitat ones.  And I didn't catch the whole license, but the first two characters were "9Z."

So, if I get murdered on the road, you'll know the fucker who did it.

Killing Two (Or More) Birds With One Stone

Had a call-in session with my shrink today.  It was after work, and since I came in Sunday evening to work some overtime, I saw that I would be filling in for someone who works a half-hour earlier than me, so I could move up the tele-session by a half-hour.  And yet, because of some driver who went over two or three lanes to take the cloverleaf ramp from one highway to another right in front of me, I tried keeping up with her, accelerating and decelerating at dangerous speeds very close to other cars.  Sadly, I couldn't keep up with her (and I only say her because a decal, "You just got passed by a girl!" set me off).  Alas, road rage insults inflicted on me by fast, dangerous cars go unanswered by me because of slow cars ... well, slower; they're the ones obeying the speed limit, not me, or that chick.

But I got to the grocery fast enough where, after I purchased food and a Coke, I made it to the parking lot and I wasn't too late to receive the call from my therapist.  Turns out, driving that fast did get me to almost on time with him, but I could just be rationalizing my bad driving, driving that seemed to have taken some miles off of my car's transmission.  It's been going funny ever since, I think.

It's that aggression, one that may or may not have been intentional by that other car, that was my first subject with my psychologist.  I then went to talking about the other passive-aggressive dudes I ran into at work.  At the end of the hour, my therapist asked me to reflect on these run-ins as well as my aggressive driving before the call and try to delve into why I did those things.  He noticed an "irritation" in me, and he thought that I have had a negative reaction to those dealings not because of something deriving from those dealings themselves, but rather they're a connection to either something else at work or something at home.

I have done a little reflection, and although I could be wrong, I think I know what it is: My sudden weight gain.  I talked about it at a glance here, but I'll rehash it: On Friday, I went to a screening that my company uses to, fingers crossed, give me the cheapest insurance rates.  I go through the whole metric rigmarole -- blood panel, blood pressure, height.  And then I weighed myself, and by God, I am the heaviest I have ever seen myself on a scale.  It didn't help that I went to see Black Widow and got a popcorn and large Coke (that came free!), then went to the Gopher soccer Match and got a hot dog and a medium-sized Coke.  I went online at work Sunday night and checked past screenings: My weight, and thus my Body Mass Index, was much more manageable the previous two years, and that includes one in the thick of the pandemic, when no one was doing anything except stay home and eat.

Ever since I could feel the weight around my waistline -- which, by the way, according to the quick but not customer-friendly tech who took all my measurements, is at a record 38 inches -- and I have been obsessed with, and enslaved by, my rotundity.  That deluxe sandwich, with several slices of deli meats packed into two delicious pieces of bread?  I was throwing the wrapper away while speaking to my doctor.  The trash can was across the parking lot.  I walked over there, and every step I took I felt my belly shifting to and fro.  I was mentally adding "doooonk, doooonk" sounds in my head as I sauntered.

I think getting fat has been really weighing on my mind.  And as I noted in the blog post linked above and linked here, I have been meaning to work out, but I haven't had the time.  Last night, for example, I was going to a stripper party to get wanked, and maybe more, by this woman I have been in contact with for several years now without having any intimate contact.

But maybe there was divine intervention that has steered me in the right direction.  By the time I got there, yesterday evening, it looked like it was cancelled.  While I drove slowly down the street and saw the house, I saw a guy get out and walk up to the side door.  When I came back to park, he was already going back to his car.  We locked eyes in a way two whoremongers could identify each other.  He started the car and drove my way, but when he got up to my parked car, he stopped and told me no one was there.  Must've all cut the party short or something.  Thanks, fellow strippermonger.

I texted the host who invited me and drove off.  I literally had my best laid plans ruined, so now what?  I thought I could go to Target to buy some creamer, then walk around a park somewhere ... but ... it then hit me ... why not go to the gym?  Sure, I wasn't wearing any underwear, but that's a small price to pay for trying to burn off some calories and jump-starting your metabolism!

So even though I had to drive 13-4 miles in a car I don't quite trust nowadays, I put in about 75 minutes on the elliptical, the yoga mat, and the bike.  Four-hundred eighty-eight calories used, according to the displays.  I don't know if I have made a dent on my belly at all.  But I like to think that any exercise is good.  More importantly, right now I feel as though I have finally done a good thing to get in shape.  Mentally thinking I am doing the right thing for myself has done wonders for my psyche, and it has lightened my mood.

So, maybe this is the projection my psychotherapist has been talking about.  Maybe my frustration over my weight gain has been the reason I tried to race that crappy car, and why I take such umbrage and these worker's micro-aggressions.  I didn't get a piece of ass, but I finally was able to exercise and lift a self-imposed mental burden off my head.  And I got to save a lot of money.  Sounds like a win-win-win to me.

Now to wean myself off of pop and other added sugars. ...

Oh -- The Person Driving The Car I Dusted On The Road ... Works In The Same Place I Do ... Great ...

Yesterday/Tuesday morning, one of my nightmares came true.

So I was about to get onto the highway, but I had to cross over to the lane to the right in order to do it.  It was being blocked by a black SUV.  The lane it was on first breaks off to the highway going the other direction, and many times I see that cars in that lane go that way.  This one didn't, and I guess I was a bit surprised, because I tried to change lanes and I was ... I wouldn't say it was a close call, I saw the car, but we were, you know, close.  I then slowed down and filed behind it as we did the cloverleaf.  When we got onto the highway, that car was just cruising as I gunned it and veered off two lanes to the left.  I had to get to work.

I do get to work.  As I'm parking, maybe half a minute after I got there, I see that same goddamn SUV.  I noticed the license plate when I changed lanes behind it, so I know it's the same one.  And now I'm scared as hell that he or she knows that I was the one who got close-but-not-that close to it back up closer to our house, the directions to which he or she kind of now knows.

See, this is one of my nightmare scenarios: Getting into a road rage incident with someone who turns out to be a co-worker.  He or she might think why in the hell did I drive so fast if we got to the same destination within 30 seconds of each other.  Or ... he or she could be plotting his or her revenge for almost sideswiping him or her.  And dammit, I didn't even take a look at the driver!  He/She knows what I look like, but I don't know what he/she looks like!  Gah!  How stupid of me!

I Should Look At License Plates More

So on my way to work yesterday I decided to take it slow and drive slowly behind some car in the right lane because I was about to take the exit.  As happens way too often, some car was zipping down the entrance ramp to my right, and if I didn't slow down, that car would hit me.  So like I was taught to do, I slowed down even further to let that car in.

And then he (I'm assuming the driver is male, and I think there's a 98% chance I'm right) turned on his right blinker.  He was going off the same ramp I was.  Well, I just let you in front of me -- the least you could do is drive somewhere I'm not going!  But this asshole didn't.

And then he had the balls to start accelerating.  I can accelerate, too!  And I was late for work!  So I decided I was going to try and pass him by getting on the left lane and zooming past the slow (slow being driving under 65) cars.  But this motherfucker (he was driving an SUV, I think it was an Audi) hit the gas and never let up.  My exit was coming up and I was going to have to fight through traffic, so I gave up.

It was around that time that I thought a thought I have had a lot when this red mist descends on me as I am driving: Why in the hell did I not look at the license plate of that motherfucking asshole?  I could remember it (even though I'm bad at remembering things), write it down, and then ... well, I would have it, that's the important thing.  I have rationalized not ever getting the plates of these cars that have "disrespected" me by saying that I had to keep my eyes on the road.  If I'm intent on looking at the characters on the license plate, how soon could I react if that prick car suddenly puts on the brakes, or if another car wants to slide inbetween me and that car?

Look, this car did ... little wrong.  I admit that.  I still think that I should be getting license plate numbers more often whenever a car does something wrong to me.  I've thought for some time about getting an on-car camera, but it's expensive, I don't know how much elbow grease I would have to expend in order to set it up, and I'm afraid it'll get stolen ... or it'll make me a target for road ragers.

Still, I should look at license plates more often.

You Know, I Think Some Playmates Are Kind Of Nuts

As I've said many times before, the co-main reason I got onto Facebook (I do want to remain connected with my actual friends) is to find and befriend hot women on the Internet.  I think most of those are bodybuilders, but I initially signed up to look for Playboy Playmates and college girls who showed their bodies in the magazine.  It's an extension of my previous hobby of looking up those college girls on the Internet in college.  Now, I wish I could have done it under an alias, but Mark Zuckerberg doesn't like that, so instead of stopping, I just decided to marry my perverted side with the real me.  Russian bots are fine; me following hot women under the safety of anonymity are not.

People in social media do spill their secrets and expose their real selves.  That's what I was looking for, and it was the main reason I wanted to befriend these hot babes.  But while looking through pictures of their kids and their pets, I started to notice that some of them are, shall we say, human.  Well, I don't think that's the right word.  Some of them are quite normal.  And some of them are fucking crazy bitches.

There are two of them that I got sick of last week.  Well, they got sick of me, actually.  Wendy Hamilton (Miss .. oh, who gives a shit) was a woman who never posted pictures of herself right now, although she uploaded pictures of herself when she modeled.  She was more of a person who would post photos of her sons, and updated her status to talk about them.  But some of her other status updates was just her complaining.  One update I remember was a road rage incident where she and the other driver exchanged middle fingers.  The other one is Fawna McLaren (also don't give a rat's ass when her centerfold was) who would sometimes rant on Facebook.  Usually it had a political bent; like Hamilton, McLaren was a rank conservative.  I didn't mind that because, hey, they're Playboy Playmates.

It came to a head last week when Hamilton posted another pic of her as a model.  Now, I got the idea at this point that she would rather not upload a photo of her as she looks now.  Nevertheless, I decided I would comment that I would like to see one.

And oh God, she fucking went nuts!  "How dare you!" she cried, and then she got into this defensive crouch of, "I will post what I want!  Why do you keep asking me for a photo of me now?" (this is the first time I ever asked for a current shot).  And then McLaren started egging her on: "Oh, he's just rude!  You should just unfriend her, girl."  I had an idea from their past updates that they were dramatic, if not unstable.  But when I saw their string of comments to my innocuous request, ending with Hamilton saying, "Ugh!  Just delete this!" I stopped caring about being able to fantasize and masturbate to these two women.  And so I defriended them.

Well, I blocked McLaren.  I swear I friended her, but we weren't friends, and even if we were, her wingwoman bullshit would have convinced me to cut her loose.  I then blocked Hamilton, then thought I was being Franken-level harsh, so I decided to un-block her but stay not friends.  But then I thought, "Wait, I don't want to be bothered by this kook ever again," even though I watched her Playboy video, and I still remember her turning around and bending over to show off her fine ass from under her short skirt and she turned back to the camera to smile and ... anyway, I decided to make this permanent, so after Facebook's mandatory 48-hour "cooling off period," I re-blocked her.

It seemed like a very heavy decision at the time.  But I think me forgetting for a whole week about what I did and just getting around to blogging about it now is testament to the fact that I really didn't care about "losing" those two as "friends."  And my life, as hectic and unhappy as it is, really isn't affected by my blocking these Playmates.  I'm OK.  In fact, I think it's good I took steps, superficial as they may be, to removing toxic and negative people out of my life.

Our Silent Treatment

My family has never done goodbyes well, or at least as well as normal families.  We don't really bid farewell to each other with gratitude and warm feelings, because, well, we don't have any.  In fact, I think that my parents and I (with some sprinkling in from my brother and sister) use the occasion to get one final shot at each other, via insult or passive-aggressive slight.  It's the best time to do it because the other side can't do anything because we're on vacation, ha-ha!

Such was the case yesterday (Tuesday) evening, when I was taking my parents to the airport.  We were pretty convivial with each other, although the rush to get through the metro area in evening rush kind of put any petty grievances we had with each other aside because we could miss the flight.  However, My Fucking Father, who did go through and invade my privacy by cleaning my bedroom, gave me his usual edict before leaving.  I didn't listen, per usual, but the last one got my dander up: "... and clean up your room, and throw away your bottles!"

I have saved a couple bottles which I have placed on top of my desk.  One of them is a big bottle of Surly Darkness which I waited in line to get.  It was full, but once I drank it, I liked the artwork so much (which I believe was done by a friend) that I kept it.  Another was a bottle from the famed New Glarus Beer Co., a Wisconsin-only craft beer outfit whose fable has become legendary on this side of the border.  I kept the bottle, given to me by my cousin who personally made the trek to New Glarus, Wisc., in order to enjoy the beer, because of that.  And I have a bottle from the Whistler Soda Co., now being made by Blue Sun, a pop soda shop that is not ten minutes away from me.  I like their pop, but I kept the bottles because I am going to go back and there and deposit the bottle in order to get a discount on the next bottle of Whistler.

So when I heard what My Fucking Father said, I couldn't believe it.  The invasion of privacy is one thing; that still hurts, but I knew when I went to Hong Kong that there was a possibility he would be all up in my business.  But I felt so foolish, so stupid, for not even realizing that he took away the bottles.  I keep my stuff around, but if I don't notice them, how can I say that they're important enough to me to keep them around?  The rearranging of the plastic sports cups onto the top of my desk (some of them were on my dresser) was one of the first things I noticed when I got back from HK.  But the bottles?  Nope, didn't notice.  And he caught me on it.

And so I was pissed from that point on through the rest of the drive to the airport.  Some bitch insisted that she cut in front of me as we went from 35WS to Crosstown East, even though I kept the gap between me and the car in front of me narrow and the space behind me was open wide.  If my parents weren't in the car, I would've sideswiped that woman to prevent her from getting in front of me.  That's how upset I was.

When we finally got to the airport and I stopped, they said thank you.  To which I said ... nothing.  Nothing.  I didn't even look their way.  I just hit the hazard lights, made sure the heat was going, and stared out the side window as Mother got up off the passenger seat and My Fucking Father gave her both of their bags through the passenger-side rear door.  And as soon as My Fucking Father was clear of the car, I took off.

I didn't intentionally do that.  I really didn't.  But I had to convey the anger and embarrassment I felt.  And the Silent Treatment, which leaves people wondering, "Are they in deep thought or are they mad at me?" is the only way I could get back at him.  My comeback to that is that whenever I go to the airport, I offer up hearty well wishes and am met with indifference, if not contempt.  Hell, I could say that I learned the Silent Treatment from them.  And I could also say that they were getting out of the car too fast for me to say anything meaningful.  Or, I could say that I thought they were mad at me, so why say anything?  But that's reasoning I use to not say anything around the house.

Whatever the case, my unplanned micro-aggression may very well have had its intended, instinctual effect: My folks, in particular My Fucking Father, may very well have muttered, "I knew he was mad after we cleaned his room."  Good.

Except ... after going to Buffalo Wild Wings and to My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Edition), I frantically went home to, once he told me about the bottles, to find the bottles.  I looked in the recycling bin, although Recycling Day was last Thursday (they come every other week) and so it was very likely that if he cleaned up my room, it was before Thursday.  It wasn't there.  So I checked back into my bedroom, just in case ... and, well, there my bottles were, at the top of my desk, moved to the corner, but still there.  So, My Fucking Father didn't dispose of those bottles after all.

He left a small bottle of water in the backseat of my car.  Probably drank it on the ride to the airport.  I was so mad at him for doing that on top of taking my bottles from me (or so I thought) that, before I went back up to my bedroom, I put that goddamn bottle of water underneath his side of the bed in the master bedroom, just to piss him off.

Just in case he gets back at me for getting back at him for something I only thought he did while they're out of town, I'm leaving the empty bottle there, just in case.  Don't fucking litter.

Bad Driver: Driver Of White Minivan Whose License Plate I Did Not Look At, To Which I Am Bitter About Forgetting

OK, so this asshole drove fast enough to not cut me off, but change onto my lane several dozen yards in front of me.  (This is going to work this morning, by the way.)  This car, a white minivan, maybe a domestic, turns on its right-turn signal to jerk its way onto Lindau, but then veers back left in order to remain on Killebrew.  And too fucking bad for me, that's exactly where I'm going.

Knowing my life, I knew where this was headed, and I knew where he was headed.  At a stoplight close to the Mall Of America, I get onto the lane to his right to see who this fucker is.  It's an Asian man, maybe Tibetan, and dangling on his rearview mirror was some pendant or amulet.  Didn't look like he was a road rage driver.  If anything, he looks more like a guy high on meth or something.  Sure as hell drives like that.

Asshole driving all the way -- the burning acceleration from stops, the tailgaiting, the sense that this guy might be crazy enough to run over a car or dare take a turn in front of an onrushing vehicle.  He did each of those things right to the lot where I park my car, at work.  I'm glad I didn't follow his bitch ass right to a spot, but he took the next right over, and as I was parking, he stopped at the rear of the parking lot and ... well, I went to park my car, so I lost him.

But I was curious as to who the hell this guy is, so after I parked, instead of walking into the warm building, I went the other way, braving the whipping cold wind while trying to locate this a-hole minivan.  And I couldn't find him.  Maybe he drove off.  Or, maybe he parked because -- my God -- he fucking works here.  I don't know this because, once again, when this prick was driving dangerously in front of and beside me, I didn't remember to look at and remember this guy's license plate.  Yeah, I know that the reason I didn't look down at the plate is because I'm driving and it's dangerous to divert your attention from the road.  But shit, getting information about bad drivers is also important to me, and I kick myself after I turn off my car and I realize I didn't even take a look at the license.

So now I don't know if this guy is someone I'll cross downstairs at the cafeteria, or if I'll share an elevator with this jerk.  What if we cross paths again?

Bad Driver: 870 UBA

You, behind the black Chrylser ... oh, you're a special one.  Because I know you're from my neighborhood.  And I saw you take that right turn right after me without stopping.  Like a bitch.

I hate tailgating fuckers like you.  Because you always seem to get away with your tailgating.  I move over, hoping that I've got the lane that'll go faster, but no, it inevitably has the asshole who obeys the speed limit.  Meanwhile I see you tearing ass down 47 and cutting right in front of somebody as we're all backed up past the intersection to get onto the on-ramp.

And then you're gone, without a trace, down through the highway, probably (hopefully?) pissing off motorists but getting to wherever the hell you want to go faster.  It's always the jerks that get away with it.

Next time.  Because I know I'll see you soon.

Bad Driver: 790 RLG ... And State Trooper #44128

OK, Mr. State Trooper ... when I first saw you tearing ass down 35WS and came up behind me, honestly, I thought you were trying to get around me because there was some incident further down the highway.  So I change lanes ... only for you to change lanes right behind me.  OK, I thought, you wanted to change lanes too, so I changed them back ... and you changed lanes back to remain right behind me.  Then I finally saw what was going on.

So -- were you going to pull me over?  If so, why didn't you?  Did you want to, oh, intimidate me instead?  Because this was a really weird dance we did on a highway during morning rush.  When I changed lanes you finally let this shit go, but you slowed down to my rate of speed, like you were stalking me diagonally.  I was watching you over to my left side, and not the road, because I didn't know what the hell you were doing.  I could have gotten into an accident, and I know that if I did, you would have blamed me, even though you started it.  Is that why you were acting so fucking weird -- to bait me into an accident and, what, teach me a lesson?

For fuck's sake, man, why didn't you do something?  Either you should have pulled me over, which I knew you wanted to do, or you could have zoomed right by me.  Hey, I'll admit that I was speeding.  (Everybody else on the fucking highway was speeding too, but even I have to confess that's a tired excuse, no matter how true that is.)  You can speed because you're a state trooper.  So go ahead.  You had the lane all to yourself.  Why didn't you just fucking go?  Maybe you wanted to pull me over and give me a ticket instead.  If so, you should have just fuckin' did it -- pull me over and get this shit over with.

So why didn't you give me a ticket?  Did you not have proof that I was speeding?  Did you not want to bother giving me a ticket?  Or did you want to just abuse your authority and razz me for a few miles, and then make sure I was obeying the law and staying below 60 for the rest of my trip?

Or was it because I was one of those guys who cut in on that huge back-up before the tunnel?  Hey, I admit that I did that.  That was one hell of a back-up, don't you think?  But I wasn't the only one to do that.  In fact, there was one other asshole car who cut through and did worse.  I remember that car because he or she was speeding all the way from 694.  I have the license plate and description, too.  Do you want it?  790 RLG.  A red Explorer.  The driver didn't just merge onto one lane; she or he immediately took the next lane, too, and then she or he was tailgating the car right ahead of her or him.  That driver was doing that ever since it blew past me.  You saw that car ... right?  If you were doing your job, you would have pulled over that road rager instead of pestering me.  (I know you saw that goddamn car because I remember seeing you in that traffic jam -- you aren't the only observant one here, boyo.)

But instead you decided to bother me, because I was by far the worst driver out there.  So I was a good boy.  When you stayed on that lane that was backed up onto Crosstown, I drove past you and stayed on 35WS -- at 60 miles per hour.  I made sure that I stayed below the speed limit.  You made sure I was too.  Don't deny we were looking at each other as I drove past you.  Just know that I'll be driving as fast as I can tomorrow, and chances are, you won't be around to catch me then.

Asshole Driver: 630 RTU

This one is important, guys.  Of all the Bad Drivers I've encountered, this prick scares me the most.  So, just in case this asshole comes after me, well, you heard it here first.

Alright, you motherfucking Trump supporter.  I was waiting on the off-ramp because cars were coming by.  I did see the lane in front of me, but since we were going to the mall, some cars veer into that lane, so just in case, I let them move ahead first.  Oh, by the way, I also stopped on that off-ramp because I had the fucking Yield sign.

You seem to be really pushy, aren't ya?  Getting all by me even though we both were racing through the stop signs.  What, you needed that special spot underneath the two-floor ramp before me?  But I will admit that you really pissed me off when you slammed on your brakes right in front of me after you cut me off.  I do not want to waste my good, new brake pads and rotors for a piece of shit like you.

Finally: Yeah, I see your "Locked And Loaded" decal on the back of your camper shell.  I'll be honest: I am intimidated.  You were looking at me like you were catching every single detail of my face and car.  I wouldn't be totally surprised if you left a bullet in our mailbox, or if you go to the DMV, look up my license, and head to my house with one of your arsenal of guns.  But you're not going to shut me up, because you're a road-raging asshole, and you need to be put on blast.

So I don't have any idea whether the county police paid a visit to you or your car if you were still parked at the mall after I called your punk ass in.  I don't know if they can or will do anything at all.  But I know one thing: Pretty soon, I'm going back to that mall, and I'm going to park there, and I'm going to walk into that mall to do whatever the fuck I want, because I have a right to do whatever the fuck I want without being shoved around by some rude Second Amendment-loving chump who decides he doesn't have to wait.

What the hell are you going to do about it?

Two Assholes

As soon as I heard furtive shuffling in the bathroom I knew My Fucking Father was on one of his cleaning jags.  He's leaving for Vegas Tuesday, and like he always does, he wants to leave things in the house spic and span, even though 1) he's only gone for three days and 2) who cares if things are clean?


As such, I knew I was going to get it from him the second I opened the door.  Had no choice; had to mow the lawn before going to the U. soccer game this afternoon.  And like clockwork, he went into his bullshit lecturing again:


"Where are you going?"


"Yeah, I'm going to mow the lawn."


"OK, well, as soon as you're done, you need to clean up your room, pick up your papers."


"Sure," I said, pointedly ignoring what he said, putting my headphones on and walking down the stairs.


Well, My Fucking Father wasn't having any of that.  He angrily stepped away from scrubbing whatever the hell he wanted to scrub in the bathroom to read me the Riot Act.  "You are 40 years old now!  I had the contractor measure your windows, and your stuff was in his way!"  Oh my God, I don't want to make you look bad in front of some fucking contractor!


You douchecanoe.  And what the hell was he offering me salad for lunch for?


So I had no choice but to "clean" up my bedroom.  But there was no way I was going to toss all my shit away.  I mean, it was my shit.  I need to put it in storage.  But how was I going to sneak it past My Fucking Father, who was eating salad in the dining room?


I don't know if what I came up with worked.  I threw all my stuff into a bag, and I went out to the recycling bin out back, but I put my things next to the door and instead opened the side door.  I then went back inside, took my car keys (should have grabbed those right away, in retrospect) and went out through the front door.  While My Fucking Father was taking a phone call from my uncle, I hurriedly threw all my stuff in the back of my car.  I then turned on my car and then turned it off to create the ruse that I "forgot" something in the recycling bin.  That's because I needed an excuse to put the bar back in the side door.  So I went back inside, went through the back, went to the door, bolted it back up, reached inside the bin and yanked out a section of the Star Tribune I really did through in the bin.  I made a point of flashing My Fucking Father that paper; if he ever asks me why I went to the back a second time, I would tell him that I reached into the bin and grabbed that section of the paper because I wanted to read that story for a long, long time.


Oh, and in case he wanted to rummage through the bin to make sure I actually did throw all my stuff away, I took my parents' bag of recyclables and threw those in the bin as well.  He'd have to be fucking crazy to go through all that shit to see if I was telling the truth.


We'll see if it works.


---


Trying to wait My Fucking Father out took a half-hour, and by the time I executed my successful (?) plan I had a half-hour to get to the game.  It was going to be close, but I was determined to make it.  Unfortunately, the road closures to get to 35W derailed my plans.  First I had to pass up getting there from 694 East.  Then I thought I could get on 694 West and do a U-turn, but that ramp was closed too.  So I had to get on 94 East and drive like a bat out of hell through downtown in order to try and make it.


No, I wasn't going to make it.  Got kind of close, though.  Technically I was on Cleveland Ave. about five minutes to 1.  But there was one final wrinkle.  I was at the stoplight at County Rd. B, and from there, the road narrows from two lanes to one.  Normally, those on the right lane would seamlessly merge into the lane, and any cars in the left lane would allow those cars to merge -- you know, like civil grown-ups.


I didn't get that grown-up.  No, the car who was supposed to fall behind me decide he wanted to be a dick and not let me in.  The right disappeared before he would fucking slow down and open up a hole for me.  I had to drive through brush before he would let me in.  Why in the hell did I have to run into this entitled road rage asshole who thought he didn't have to let me in?  Was he trying to be a tough guy?  Did he want to enforce the rules of the road?  Was it because he didn't think the lane narrowed to one?  Was it because I didn't put on my turn signal?


That asshole pulled a right and zoomed down Roselawn.  But at this point I'm not sure if he was going to the soccer match as well.  It was a huge waste to go all this way and not go to the game, but at this point I had reason to fear for my life.  Plus, I wasn't getting to the pitch before the contest started.  So, I aborted that.  I went to Ruby Tuesday to catch most of the men's basketball Gold Medal Game, and now I'm here at the Rosedale library about to post this.  I'm going to get a gas coupon and put all this stuff in storage before heading home.


Not a great day.  Too bad because it's sunny but not humid.

Now My Friend Is Affected (ETA: sic) My Driving

So I sent a missive defending myself from my friend who's nagging me about how I'm running the fantasy football league.  I thought a lot about how I didn't want to come off yelling at my friend, but I wanted to respond to what I thought was him overreacting.  Yesterday, my friend replied, and at this point, he is rapidly turning into my frenemy.  He accused me of wasting his time and writing a "diatribe" in his multi-page e-mail.  He says I contradict myself.  And then he finally said this definitely will be the last year he is in my fantasy league.  Strong words coming from a guy who continually acts like a commissioner in my league -- one, by the way, where we are not gambling for money.

I am pissed off.  And I'll be honest: I am more angered by his accusations than the fact that a friend is yelling at me.  What I mean by that is I am less (well, no longer) concerned about his feelings than clearing the air about what I do and what I get to do.  Bottom line: I care more about my honor than my friendship with him.  That may be sad, but honestly, after freely attacking me, I think he feels the same.

Regardless of why, this has been on my mind, a lot.  And it has affected my behavior, unfortunately.  The most egregious manifestation of that happened as I was driving this morning.  Before coming here for coffee, I wanted to go to the gas station to get some money.  I was stopped at a light, and I was stopped there for a long time.  I got antsy because Father was telling me as I was leaving was that they were going out for a morning walk, and that walk cuts close to this gas station.  If I had to wait any longer, they might have seen me take the wrong turn towards the coffeeshop rather than "to work" as I leave the gas station.  Frustrated, I took a right turn to go to this ATM in the bank down the street rather than wait for the light to turn green so I could drive through.

As I was getting to the ATM a car cuts in front of me.  I was not driving slow, but the car that was behind me decided I was; she changed lanes and then cut back into my lane in front of me.  Now, I usually let that go.  But I was thinking about my frenemy's letter all throughout the drive, and I got ginned up waiting for the traffic light, and that just pissed me off.  So I changed lanes, drove through the stop sign and cut back in front of her before I took the left to the ATM.  And unlike her, I did not turn on my signal.

But then she took a left.  Oh, well.  I was so angry that I was ready for a fight, I was ready to step outside and confront her if we were both going to the ATM.  Luckily (for her or for me?), she went straight while I took a right.  While she passed she looked at me; I glared back at her.  She probably was thinking, "What the fuck?"  So am I, but I know deep down I was scared, and she must have been, too.

And then, after that car was out of my vicinity and I was at the ATM, I thought to myself, "You know, I don't think that was necessary."  Oh, I still believe that she did a dick move, as many have done to me throughout the years.  It was only this morning where I decided to finally fight back.  Of course, you never should do that because of the danger that might cause.  But honestly, if not for my frenemy and that damn e-mail, I gave into the devils of my worse nature.  I'm lucky nothing happened.

And still, still, I am upset over him disrespecting me.  And I have no other choice but to respond in kind.  But how?  Will this continue to affect me and my behavior?  And what if he replies back?

A Waste Of A Drive To WBL

I was up by 10.  I got on the Internet by 10:15 I think, and, of course, by 10:30 I was beating off to porn.  Is it an addiction or a hobby?

I hear a knock on the door.  Probably one of those door-to-door salesmen letting me know there's a new contractor in the area and hey, would you like a free consultation?  If it were important he or she would knock again, but he or she didn't.

After spilling my seed and doing a very little bit of cleaning, I went out the door in order to catch the noon showing Men In Black 3.  (Verdict: Not bad.  Surprisingly touching and wistful.  Jemaine Clement is a forgettable bad guy, but Josh Brolin is a perfect facsimile as a young Tommy Lee Jones, who obviously was paid a lot of money only to appear in half the movie.  Reportedly the script was being made on the fly, but besides a couple leaps in logic, I liked it.  There were a ton of writers on Casablanca, too.)  I see a piece of paper taped on the screen door.  Shit -- the guy who was knocking was Federal Express; he needed someone to sign for a package.

So, now what?  I could just leave it up and tell my parents that I left before FedEx arrived.  But I felt guilty for missing it just because I was furtively masturbating in my room.  So, even though they could have come back with the package the next day (do they do that?  I don't know), I decided to pick up the package ... which is in suburban St. Paul, just down 694.

It was almost 20 miles each way, and I heard once that the average person drives about 40 miles a day, and after driving almost 64 miles round-trip for three weeks I was looking forward to not drive so damn far.  But yesterday I found myself just driving over and over until I drove 60 miles, so deciding to pick up a package I could've gotten just by answering the front door is something I really regret.

The only thing I could do is make a day of it.  I tried finding the address of this stripper who does naughty massages on the side, but failed.  I went to the local comics shop to look at some porn, but they're at least a month old, leading me to believe they've stopped shipments and might, might, shut down; at least I know that now.  And last week's Rolling Stone had a main cover story about Electronic Dance Music, or EDM.  I read that until 4, which, according to the ticket, is the earliest I could pick it up.  I tried picking it up at a quarter to 3 once I got in the area, but I had to wait till 4.

By the way, the package, a big but light one, seems to be a gift from Father to Mother.  Aw.

This waste of gas might continue.  I wanted to use public transportation to go down to the Mall of America to see the Euro semifinal between Spain and Portugal tomorrow.  But it's supposed to be the hottest day of the year -- air temperature of at least 95, humidity making it feel like at least 100 -- and I'm worried if that means more aggression as people are being transported together in the heat.  Then again, I could encounter road rage if I just drive all the way down there.  I'm fucked.

Feeling Very Self-Destructive Right Now

The closing of The Store is one thing. My Grandmother being put in a nursing home is another. But to have both coming in a matter of a month -- which is becoming more and more of a possibility -- has put me into an emotional state I have never been in before.

I've had panic attacks in the past, times where I just don't think I can't go on. I remember a real bad one in college, and the time I opened my Ivy college rejection letters. They pale in comparison to what is happening to me right now because the consequences are real. My world is ending and there isn't a goddamn thing I can do to stop it. Fuck looking forward to new things. I'm just trying to get through the day without having a mental breakdown. And I don't think I can. And I don't think I want to.

I almost goaded a driver into a race on the road. Can't remember the last time I waved my head at another car to "bring it on" like I did today.

And I just tried masturbating to bring the stress down. Didn't work.

I don't care anymore. I just don't give a fuck.

Almost Caused An Accident

I think I spoke of the time when I was confronted "nicely" by someone who accused me of cutting him off.  I was always scared of a next time; I would not be so "lucky."  Well, it happened -- and even though the person who probably wanted the confrontation is no longer mad at me, I could have caused a very, very bad accident.

The shocks on my car are bad.  I think I realized this, or was convinced to believe it, when I was told during an oil change that they were bad.  So what I thought was my car bouncing over potholes normally now is a dance with the devil, and I catch my breath hoping I'm not breaking my axels and flopping to a complete stop in the middle of the road.

Tonight, I was going to My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Version) as part of a night which was to lead me downtown to this new stripclub where a girl who gave me a handjob a couple weeks ago (I'll talk about it some other time) is now working.  Unfortunately, the way there is under construction.  I can drive on it, but a part of it has been peeled off, so when that part ended and the old road started, there's this huge bump that I'm really freaked out over.  So I slow down all the way as I approach it (on a left turn) and slooooooooooowly creep over the bump.

Too bad I totally didn't give a shit about the car behind me.  Or the car behind it.  As soon as I was willing to accelerate, I see the girl behind me start vigorously shaking her head and gesturing with her hand.  Oh, shit, she's mad, isn't she?  Well, I started to get ready for a road rage fight right in the middle of the intersection.  From the looks on my rearview mirror she's still furious at my slow driving.

But then I look at the head.  It looks ... familiar.  It looks pretty also.  And then I realize that it's 9 o'clock, the beginning of the late shift.  Oh, shit.  There is a very good possibility that we're going to the same place ... because the person I pissed off is a stripper at the bar I'm going to.

And sure enough, as soon as I get the green light and enter the parking lot, the car behind me does the same.  Well, fuck me.  I had a choice: Go away and hope they forget, or ... confront the situation myself.  I decide I wanted to see boobs, so I figure I could just go in and apologize to her.

I go in; no one, woman or man, tries to coldcock me.  I go up to a stripper who's holding her bag and looks like she just came in.  "Were you the one who was behind me?" I asked her.

"She was," the guy she was talking to when I barged in, who is the bouncer, said.  She then looked at me before going into the strippers' locker room.  She's usually kind of out of it, so she probably didn't know what I was trying to ask her.

Or, it wasn't her.  There was another girl holding her bag and looking like she just came in, and this one (with whom I'm familiar with, just like the first one) had the shape of her head and hair that looked like the woman who was following me.  But she was talking so much that I decided to wait to talk to her.  Maybe she was venting about the asshole who was going to slow and making her late to work.

She disappeared into the lockerroom.  It took about a half-hour before she re-emerged.  At the juke box I asked her if she was behind me.  "Yes!  And you almost caused an accident!" she replied.  The guy behind her was driving like the car two ahead of him wasn't slowing down because he was afraid, and he almost rear-ended her vehicle.  And I was so, so sorry to almost have caused that.  Fortunately she, like the first stripper I spoke to, isn't totally in the present, either, so she quickly forgave me.  Whew.

I should go faster over bumps, but I'm very scared that I'll bust my car if I do that.  Maybe I need to use an alternate route to get to My Favorite Stripclub (Non-Cover Version) for the time being.  Or not go until the fix the road ... which, considering the state's been shut down for over a week now, could be a long ways away.

Post Road-Rage Incident

This happened a couple weeks ago, maybe longer.

I was at a local grocery store.  Walking out, I saw this woman sternly confronting/lecturing this young teen just outside the automatic door.  From what I could hear as I passed them by, she was confronting him about something that just happened out in the parking lot.  What I remember her saying is something to the effect of, "Why did you honk at me while I was waiting for a parking spot?  Did you really want it that bad?"

It was kind of surprising to see that.  And I don't exactly know how I feel about it.  Part of me was scared to see a woman snap in public like that.  A series of small indignities suffered day after day adds up, and she just didn't want to take it anymore.  I understand.  That could have been me.  Shit, that could still be me.

But, another part of me goes, "Good for you, standing up for yourself!"  This punk had this "what the fuck is this lady talking about?" doofus look on his face, but he's looks like the kind of guy that owns a whip with a really loud muffler because he wants to be as fucking obnoxious as possible on the road.  He totally looked like a guy who honked and annoyed his way past someone waiting for a parking spot.  So he deserved the tongue-lashing he got, even though I probably don't have the stones to do it myself.  But I have to say that guy on the receiving end of that new one-ripping could have been me, and still could be me.

You see, that incident reminds me of two memories, one each from both sides of that confrontation.  One of them happened to me.

A long time ago, when I was ushering, I wanted to go to the local Barnes & Noble before heading off to work.  I parked and was just making my way to the store when I see this old guy just go off on this teenager.  He was shouting, so I just tried to get away from that crazy man.

I saw from my periphery that the teen tried to get away.  Then this Good Samaritan joined in on the one-sided conversation.  The teen thought this was his chance to get away from him and so he started backing away.  Meanwhile, the old guy started arguing with the Good Samaritan.  And after about three seconds, the old guy started shoving and punching the Good Samaritan.

I couldn't believe it.  Here I was, in the middle of suburban America, seeing a man snap before my very eyes.  And yet all I could selfishly think about was not getting into the middle of this.  This poor guy wanted to help out, and now he's getting his ass kicked by a guy who should be tased, but I ain't doin' a goddamn thing about it because he might come after me next.  And I have work to get to.

So I did the bravest thing a guy too timid to get involved would do: I called for help.  I saw the teen walk/run towards Shinders, this comics place with porn in the back that I would go to all the time.  I chased him in.

The teenager already was talking to the guy working there about getting help.  I asked the teen, "What happened?"  He said something like he got into an argument with him over honking his horn and/or while getting into the strip mall.

"Did you?" I asked.

He didn't say anything.  So he did.

By the time I looked back out, the crazy old man stopped assaulting the Good Samaritan, who was starting to walk away.  I had work to get to, so I just left.

The other incident was one where I was accused of the road rage.  I was going to a gas station close to the movie theater I go to all the time now (although I don't remember if I was specifically going to watch a film that night).  But I guess I was in a bad mood when I went to fill up for gas, because while I was going inside to pay, some stranger walks up to me and says (paraphrashing because it's been years), "Dude, you cut me off.  Don't do that.  If I were a different guy, I'd be a lot more pissed off and then you'd have real trouble.  I'm doing you a favor; watch yourself next time, alright?"

I've never gotten into a physical road rage incident after I left my car, but I certainly had never gotten into a confrontation where a guy told me he could have fought me after a road rage incident.  And to this day I feel a certain umbrage at not only him confronting me, but what he said and the way in which he said it.  I found him to be very condescending.  First of all, I may have been a bit curt when driving that evening, but I don't think I cut anybody off.  And even if I did, I don't think I deserved to be, for lack of a better word, dressed down like he did.  And to use a soothing tone, like he's a doting father trying to impart a Life Lesson -- that's the part that still pisses me off to this day.

I didn't say anything but, "Oh, OK."  But my visceral reaction was to think in my head, "Well!" to his haughtiness.  And now, I would rather him just fight me in the gas station store.

The world is crazy.  But we did our part to make it crazy.  All of us.

Hot Time, Summer In The City

This has been the worst spell of weather all year.  It's been hot and humid for about a week, give or take a day.  In fact, I don't think we've had such a streak of awful, shitty heat in a long time, maybe ever.

I've felt and seen the aftereffects of this oppressive weather, in me and in others, the past few days:

• Been so desultory the past few days the cellphone alarm woke me up from a deep sleep.  Without Mother asking me to go to the bank, I've been out deep when it started blowing up.  At what time did I set up my alarm?  Noon-ish.
• Because I had to be at the U. at 1, I should have just gone straight to "work."  But it's been hot, so I don't care.  I go to lunch, eat kind of quickly, and get there very late -- like ten minutes late yesterday and 15 today.  Oops.
• I was told today that my results have been inconsistent.  Oh-oh.  Wake-up call.  I don't think I've been not listening the past few sessions.  I do what I usually do: Close my eyes, kind of space out, and listen to the blips and bleeps and figure out which one is not like the others.  Has it been incorrect?  This might lead to something bad, like getting fired.  I can't have that.  Oh well; that means I have to wake up early enough to get there on time now.  Have to show them I'm serious about this.
• Road rage flare-ups galore on the way home.  Cutting in front, merging without signaling, honking horns, etc.  I have to admit I did a few of those things, too.

I see it turning dark outside right now.  With the hot and humid weather comes storms, and there's a tornado watch right now through this evening.  Maybe it will cool.  But the forecasters say it'll stay hot all week.

Bad Driver: 480 DRH

One thing I hate about myself, and it's something I seriously need to work on, is my bias at bad drivers. Specifically, I have noticed for a long time that I get more enraged when I discover that the driver that cuts in front of me is a woman. Either my nascent fear and loathing of my mom or my culturally inculcated misogyny erupts whenever I see a girl dare take my manhood. It pisses me off, but then when I think about how I'm feeling at that moment, I get pissed off even more.

Then I think of My Father. Is the reason I get angrier with women drivers than men drivers because of how I grew up regarding women with my mom as an example, or how I grew up regarding men with My Father as an example? I grew up loving him a lot more than Mother. That might mean that I have grown to give males a certain amount of slack over how they drive, because when I see them driving I think about my sweet, loving, understanding Father driving. But then -- I don't know when exactly -- I grew to feel betrayed and hurt, and then absolutely despising My Fucking Father. And that might translate into having this ingrained fear of all men while out on the road, which means I transfer my anger only to women drivers.

Still, I have to report this, and I have to the state. Because what this bitch did to me is wrong. I've been cut off before, and by people who don't put their blinkers on. But my anger is usually rooted at what looks to be their indifference to my safety. This cunt is different.

I was on 35WN. Around the split with 36 I was going around the bend there while on the left-most lane. The lane to my right had a car whose driver was driving slower than me. Still, my car's pretty old and it can't accelerate, especially while I'm going around a bend. No matter to this woman whom I saw ride my ass as I was taking this curve -- and around afternoon rush, when I had to keep my eye out on any stopping traffic ahead of me.

I was getting past this car next to me, but slowly. And I know what she was going to do: As soon as I got past that car far enough that there was a gap, she was going to shoot through it. And after 35W straightened out, that's exactly what she did. But the little flair she added was that she cut right in front of me without signaling. I mean directly right in front of me. The gap she narrowed while she was behind me was shorter than the gap she created when she cut in front of me, but not by much. And there was space in the traffic around here; she had plenty of asphalt and time to move onto my lane 10, 20, 30 yards ahead of me, and she certainly had the speed, the car, and the lead foot to do so. That she instead almost ran me off the road means that goddamn motherfucker wanted to send a message that I was in her fucking way and that she was pissed off.

Well, lady, now I'm the one who's pissed off. I was so fuckin' lucky to catch up with you when traffic slowed at 96, you with the short straight blonde hair and the way you were bitching into the cellphone you were using while driving like you were insane. And the fact that you got onto the middle lane, the one with the huge semi several yards ahead of us, and it somehow became the fast lane while I was in the left lane, which turned out to be the slow one, doesn't mean you're a master driver, it just means you got really goddamn lucky.

I really hope the police do something with the information I sent them about you. Better yet, I hope you got pulled over. Best yet, I hope one day your reckless driving gets you killed or chased down and run over by a guy you shouldn't've fucked with. Please fucking die.

Bad Driver: NLH 153 (I Think)

I was on my way to the bank for Mother on 10W yesterday morning, also known as the drag strip. This car changed lanes to get right in front of me without signaling.

At that point I was at a crossroads. I decided not to let it slide. I decided to chase the fucker.

I don't remeber the last time I gunned my car to 80, 85. But when I finally caught the bastard and tried to get ahead of him, he decided he wanted to go, too. Thank Buddha he had cars in front of him and I was able to dance around the three lanes going north.

At one point I decided to pull in front of him like he did to me, a sort of planting-a-flag-on-the-Moon moment. I let the car in front of this asshole pass. This shit tries to drive up and not allow me to get in, but I get in, and without signaling, just like he did. And he finally backed off.

Got your number, prick. White guy, hair, has a passenger/doofus who's also white and has hair. Got you.

Bad Driver: MJP 985

Man, I haven't been given the finger in a long time.

I'm trying to get home from "work" using a side street in the middle of afternoon rush.  When going on a green, this stupid domestic car doesn't like the way I accelerate and goes around me.  Oh, who preytell could this vehicle be?  So I get on the other lane to see if I can beat it, lest I have to write it down and report it.

Luckily, this asshole car had some guy turning right in front of it, so it has to slow down, which means I blow past it.  I win!  Wait.  The driver gets around the car as soon as possible, which means veering very close to me in order to speed back up.  It was about to hit my car, so I honk my horn to back it off.  I don't know if it worked because I was afraid I was going to hit the car in front of me.

Once I get to the stoplight, I look to my right.  The car finally catches up with me.  The driver is a woman -- blonde hair pulled up, glasses, kind of chubby.  And by God, she gives me the finger as she passes.  And she looks me straight in the eye while she does it!  The balls of that bitch!!  She must've really been in a serious meltdown, or seriously not give a fuck about anything, to do that.  What is it, lady?  Pissed about what you're driving away from?  About what you're driving to?  Both?  Or are you angry that you drive a gray Olds and that you're plain-looking?

I really thought I'd be a lot angrier at the disrespect given to me, but I'm not for two reasons: 1) I did honk at her; it was necessary, but I've been on the other side and I was not in a good mood from it; and 2) I'm still amazed she had the guts to look at me and flick me off.  I think a part of me is impressed, actually.

I did think about stalking her, just to get back at her for doing that to me.  Alas, I choose to let it slide and reported her online.  Hopefully, maybe, she'll get pinched by the law for what she did.