This has
been one of the stranger weeks in an already strange life. Odd dreams
and what not. The latest odd dream was earlier this week. I was
restless and dreaming that JC and I had been kidnapped and taken from
our house by some old bat and her young ward. We had been separated,
and I was trying to find JC. In the middle of of the night. I awoke
to this strange boy in bermuda shorts and t-shirt climbing out of bed
from beside me.
I jumped
from the bed and was running around our real house, when JC came out
of the bathroom. “What on earth are you doing?” I, with hair
flying and eyes rolling was wielding a very heavy level that would
have beheaded anyone I didn't know. “Don't go in the kitchen!
There's a strange boy in there. He jumped out of our bed and ran off
in there!” JC had a hell of a time convincing me that the “strange
boy” was him. The bathroom is in the general direction of the
kitchen. Still, one never knows. Hilarity ensued. The next day. I was
not really convinced that he wasn't one of Chthuhlu's buddy's, but “C”
as he is affectionately known now, pretty much knocked all that stuff
off, when I out-crazied him last March.
Maybe he's hiding in the stove?
I have
always had very bad sleep disturbances and they have been much worse
of late. Blame it on my good pal, PD, yada yada yada. The primary has
canceled me until May. I have a dermatology appointment in April for
some suspiciously odd-looking barnacles. I got all of my blood work
done, but for the 2nd time in less than 2 months, I'm
coming down with another dose of craptosis. Yay.
Of
course, my disposition, never great around people I know and
downright bellicose when confronted with total strangers, got one
hell of a workout today. I needed to go to the MetroPCS store to
purchase a phone. I missed the store and was carried several miles
past my destination. I got off the bus on a main thoroughfare,
Hillsborough Avenue. 6 lanes of come-drunk Floridians, who are either
all bat-shit crazy, or have consumed way more than their ration of
raw meat. Aggressive bastards. The speed limit is 50 mph, but they go
70. There are no pedestrian crosswalks and there is construction with
the ever-popular yellow cones, barrels and at least one closed lane,
with about 12 inches to siphon down from 3 to 2 on both sides of the
boulevard, so everybody is pissed off.
I had to
somehow get across this river of death to the other side so that I
could travel back the way I came. There were some lulls on the
east-bound side, and I made that easily to the median, which seemed
about 2 feet tall and 2 inches wide. So, I'm balancing on top of this
mother, hoping I don't fall into the turn lane. Blindness and some
kind of neuromuscular disorder are not going to help me on the
Balance Beam. I get a 0 for execution and style. I teeter there, and
my arms don't really pinwheel; this is spasmosis at it's best. I kind
of lurch back and forth a couple of times. I know I must look drunk.
And I'm getting pissed now. Never a good thing.
It was mostly like this, like every construction zone in the world, except worse, 'cause I had to get stuck in it.
Now, for
the west-bound traffic. These assholes are undoubtedly the worst. Had
I been able to even find a crosswalk, that would have been my option,
but no. So, I waited and waited and waited. And they are truly
psychotic; dodge 'em cars, spastic lane changes, some kind of pretend
NASCAR, swappin' paint, honking, finger-gestures, everything. When I
drove, I loved being out here with these assholes. Now, I just want
to get across the street without becoming people jam. After what
seemed like a 20 minute wait, the traffic thinned somewhat. But
there's not a huge hiatus, because the lights are timed to keep this
thing running almost like an expressway, so I have to time it right.
Bear in mind, the crossing lights are more than a mile apart and I'm
midway, so everyone has had time to work up a good head of steam.
Hell, you could be driving a Model-T and hit 30 by the time you got
to me.
These
cars could see me, see my cane and glasses and the 4 or 5 cars that
were there were slowing, I had gotten to the middle lane, and there
was this one car, a sedan. This bastard SPEEDS up. So, somewhere in
my reptilian brain, I channeled Sir William Wallace and all the
people who've been blind or been hurt because of these assholes and I
stopped. I stopped right in front of this nutsack and as a Matador
faces a bull, side on, I pointed my cane at him, like some kind of
“Bull Fight of the Damned.”
I
hollered out, “That's right bitch, bring it on! How about a nice
little stay in prison, along with that giant-ass law suit that you'll lose! Stop! You
see this? This will put you in jay-al!” Taunting now. Of course, I didn't mention
that it would probably would put me in the morgue; I wasn't thinking
that way. I never do.
That
dumb fuck stopped 30 feet from me. I never even flinched. I didn't
feel relief or scared afterward. I felt vindicated. For Ivan
Roberson, for anyone who has ever been hurt by careless and stupid and bad
driving. No more. I felt my blood stir, Sir William yelling
“Freedom.” as he fights to free his country and his
circumstances. Well, not quite like that, but you know what I mean.
I stood
there and looked around for a minute; nobody had moved. I finished
crossing the street and never looked back. I bet that nutsack is
still cussing me out. Fuck him.
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