So, yeah, I was crazy that day. I was driving on I-75 in a tornado-esque rainstorm, feeling a mammoth deficit of estrogen and progesterone, and straight up terrified, like pee my pants terrified (I’m a big baby), that the 18-wheeler within inches of my car was going to shove me into the concrete barrier.
And that would be it.
Histrionic? Yes. That’s me. But I don’t like driving and especially in Dallas on I-75, where one Thursday night a bunch of guys on crotch rockets descended upon me like a swarm of killer bees, scaring the bejesus out of me, then scurried away in formation like one long, glittery rattlesnake. This memory haunts me every time I hit the entrance ramp.
Anyhoo, this is the story, the fear-based rant I dictated to my sad iPhone, a 4 that is lacking in all hipness and coolery. Also contributing to my Woody Allen-ish neuroses (love him, his obsession with death, but could do without his betrayal of Mia) is my OCD. But I don’t want to get into a loop about that. So stop I will.
Blessing to you all who pass this way….and actually stop and read.