I was just minding my own beeswax on the highway when I tried to exit yesterday to get to a class. There was this little red car on the entrance ramp. It was little, boxy, and red. Anyway, he was supposed to yield to me so I could exit, and he could enter, and it wasn’t looking like he would. Instead he started to pull over on the back half of my car, chatting on his cell phone the whole time, completely oblivious to the fact that my blinker was on, and that he was six inches from clipping my car. Nearing the end of my lane, I needed to get over, so I slammed on my breaks and laid on the horn, getting over behind him just in time. Stupid phone-nursing bastard.

Well, he decided that my honking was uncalled-for, and started waving his pudgy fist in fury, swerving his car back in front of me. I was saved only by the concrete divider that he narrowly missed slamming in to. His middle finger stood out from his hand like a pasty Vienna sausage on a giant meatball. His pale face was scarlet at 60 miles an hour, and the cell phone was gone.

I got off at my exit, and he continued on the highway at relatively the same speed. He was still shouting, and though I would have loved to watch the show, my safety was more important than watching him combust right there in his little vinyl bucket seat.

It only occurred to me later that I could possibly have been shot, or worse, by Raving Man. I have to remember that there are lunatics on the road, and though I may be miffed by a discourtesy and then move on emotionally, Raving Man might have wanted to take the next exit and slam into my car. Who knows. Frustrated at life, probably can’t get it up, and furious that I called him on a fault (maybe he is one of the many men who think all women should move over for them), he didn’t care that he was wrong. Scenes of 60-mile-an-hour kamikaze Raving Man flashed through my head, and I thanked God that there wasn’t another exit soon. I was safe, but just barely. Assholes. I hate driving.