At 5:50 pm on September 23, I was strolling along the empty, post-apocalypse Pittsfield, MA, thinking “Wow these drivers are so nice to pedestrians,” when a mini van nearly sliced my legs in half at a STOP SIGN.
I was already in the road, directly in front of the car, and had to RUN so I could, well deeply put, not die.
The blue-eyed, mousy-brown coiffed lady squeaked “Sorry,” like she was apologizing to her kids for being late to soccer practice.
Me: “Are you kidding me? You were *this close* (hand gesturing) to hitting me!”
Idiot driver: “Sorry!”
Me: “Don’t drive if you’re not paying attention!” (rage with wisdom)
I diverted my angry eyes in the homeward direction not because I was causing a scene, but rather, I was inhabiting the road where other cars were trying to turn. Again, we New Yorker Mass Hole hybrids are exemplary examples for the swift footed.
1. Some dumba&& b**#@ almost killed me.
2. Damn health insurance. It’s never there when you need it.
3. Live writing. Die writing.
At my it-almost-happened wake, strangers would sigh over my sexy as hell embalmed body: “*Sniffle* So young. So talented. So smart. To think she just started doing something she loved.”
I can think of far worse eulogies.