Curse you for almost hitting my frickin car when I have the right of way. Curse you for tail-gating and almost running into my frickin car. Curse you for hitting my frickin car on the freeway at what must’ve been 60 miles an hour. Curse you for the slow-mo what-the-f-ness of getting rammed into and having no idea what the frick was going on for what seemed like minutes, while alone in the car on the freeway, with things flying from behind, glass breaking, doors jamming, air bags popping, horns blaring, sirens starting, traffic stopping, cars scattering like billiard balls. Curse you for making me a spectacle as I crawled out of what was left of my frickin car, hoping it wasn’t about to burst into flames. Curse you for making me borrow the cell phone of the driver of the vehicle immediately behind me, who was yelling hysterically about how she was hurt. Curse you for giving me whiplash. Curse you for killing my car. Curse you for the years of driving in the meantime during which I curse every driver that gets close to me. Curse you.
--Julie Carter
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