Authors, Entrepreneurs, and other Creative Individuals Pursuing Their Dreams
“Dang me, dang me, they oughta take a rope an’ hang me, high from the highest tree … woman, would ya weep for me?”
I quote the singer Roger Miller. However, the statement may be applicable to me, as well.
Looks like I did it again. In spades.
A few days ago, March 10th, I ran a post about “Who should be flipped the bird“. It had to do with an idiot who was slow leaving a stoplight. I honked, he “birded me”. I made a point of how ignorant he was. Yesterday my article was called “Equilibrium Day“, discussing how well I fit the pic imagined in “sick as a dog”. I was actually so ill and weak I couldn’t even run my brief errands. Instead, I came home and called my friend Rick, who ran my errands for me. He even paid for the items I needed and wouldn’t let me reimburse him.
In a partial déjà vu moment from the bird flipping piece, I had someone ahead of me while I waited for a red light. As I did the last time, I honked once when he lagged at the light. When the light changed, the driver took off, moving at roughly half the speed my Grandma would drive. (I don’t think Grandma is even still alive; last I saw her was 1996 and she was in her 90s). I didn’t honk again. An eighth of a mile later, with me about 20 feet behind the SUV, moving @ 15 mph, he pulled off to the side, so I went by, dismissing the moment.
He then pulled in behind me, fired up his headlights, turned on the brights and honked his horn. Reminding you I was so sick and weak I wasn’t sure I could even walk into the store to buy my Lotto tickets, I was suddenly filled with adrenaline. Keep in mind I had no idea whom was driving the SUV; sex, age, size or “fighting ability”.
Didn’t matter. Instead of continuing to drive toward my goal, I stopped, put my car in park, got out and stormed back to the SUV. Yelling as I was still exiting my car, I asked, “You got something you wanna say to me, ###hole?” I strode to the driver’s door with no evidence I was debilitated in any way and glared at the guy. He was my age or younger, 3-4 inches shorter than my six-two, possibly 20 pounds heavier than my 202 weight.
Horrified at the pissed off ogre he saw, he said something about, “I turned right away”, to which I hollered a word that describes what we find when a bull defecates. I followed it up with a phrase one could precisely discern if I substitute “Breed you!” Glaring again, giving him an opportunity to get out of the vehicle and get his ass handed to him in a paper bag, I stomped angrily back to my car. I made it, somehow, and drove to the Lotto store, where I needed to use a chair before I was able to even buy my tickets. The same devastating weakness was back.
It was an enigmatic event. I had trouble believing what I’d done even right after I did it. What it showed me was this: we all have “hot buttons”. It’s inadvisable to push them on a man who’s been told he’s going to die. A man who, at that moment, didn’t care if someone expedited the occurrence. It was a flashback to the days of my youth when I honestly didn’t care on any day if I lived or died. I didn’t wish for death, but the idea didn’t intimidate me a bit. I felt exactly what I was all those years ago at that moment with the horn honker.
Dangerous as hell.
To be completely candid, I thoroughly enjoyed it. At times, not giving a damn either way is a wonderful way to feel.
I’m just sayin’.
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