Road Rage

I’m usually mellow. Sure, I’ll lose my cool when one of my sports teams blows a lead or when I get beat in a big poker hand, but for the most part I have an even temperament. Except when I get behind a steering wheel.

Every slight is then magnified tenfold. You cut me off, you son of a bitch, you’re going to pay for that one.  You don’t move further into that intersection so that I can make a left turn before the light turns red? You’re going to get a earful of horn honking. You dare honk at me? Expect a middle finger firmly in your face.

I’m out of control. It’s madness. I’m getting there so much quicker than if I walk, bike, or took public transportation, but apparently I’m not getting to my destination fast enough.

I’ll blame part of my anger management issues on society. The drivers in South Florida are amongst the worst in the world. Until I moved to California I had no idea you were supposed to pull over to the right when an emergency vehicle has its siren wailing and now I can see why. No one in Miami moves over.  They’re too busy drinking a mocha latte in one hand and talking on a cell phone in the other. The only time they’re ever in a hurry is when you put your turn signal on to change lanes and then all of a sudden they speed up to make it impossible. Inevitably, they slow down when you try to get behind them.

I should stop writing about this. It’s pissing me off too much. I’m going to go take a drive to cool down.

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