Life's our oyster and we're gonna suck that bitch down with a champagne chaser.



  • Behavioral Therapist
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  • BS Psychobiology/ French, UCLA




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Saturday, February 10, 2007  
DWI: Driving While Insane
As I sit here peering at the keys to a Toyota Camry I'm now in possession of, I'm overcome with a feeling of immense displeasure over my spoiled Beverly Hills bratty self, as I realize that I shan't see my beautiful Mustang for a few weeks. Instead I'm relegated to a white rental car any respectable grandmother would purchase. I know I'm coming off as spoiled. Not everyone has a car to begin with, let alone an '07 Camry, but I must whine nonetheless. I've grown very proficient at it over the years.

Already pissed off that I was awake at the ungodly hour of 9am (honestly people shouldn't be active until at least after 10:30 am), I began my commute to school. Just before crossing the interesection of Willaman and Wilshire, a behemoth of a van careens to make a left turn onto Wilshire. A crazy Persian woman on her cell phone. Of course. I'm too tired to care. I sip my chunky protein shake. We come to a red light at Robertson and Wilshire. The intersection I've grown familiar with ever since I first went to Horace Mann Elementary School on that street. I cross the intersection from the left lane (or lane 1 as my claims advisor would later tell me) and turn my shiny Mustang slightly to the left to keep in my lane, as the lanes curve 20 degrees or so to the left, and continue on my merry way. Oh but no. It wouldn't be that easy. As I cross the intersection, the aforementioned fatass van does not follow her lane and crosses over into my lane... followed by a stomach-churning CRUNCH and SCREECH.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

It takes me a couple seconds to realize what the hell just happened. The van's oversized rear bumper had hooked itself onto the right back side of my car...and torn it...off. As I move over into the right lane to pull over, the offending van's driver begins to speed up. I drive up next to her and in so many gestures, get the point across that she needs to hang up her cell phone (yes she's still talking on her cell phone) and pull the fuck over. At that point I didn't know the extent of the damage to my carriage. When I get out of my car and see it, I'm nearly overwrought with an emotion akin to a hybrid of grief and rage. I don't want to deal with this any longer than I have to so I go up to the woman's window and ask her for her insurance information and the like.

"Just give me your insurance card and driver's license. I have to get to class."
"NO! DON'T LIE TO ME! DON'T YOU LIE TO ME!"
"What are you talking about? Can we just exchange our information so I can leave."
"DON'T TALK TO ME! I CALL MY HUSBAND AND POLICE!"
"Ohh, so you're insane! Ok."

I sit by the curb. My stress lecture would start in 15 minutes. The irony does not make me smile.
She picks up her cell phone again. God her van is ugly. Is it even damaged? Of course not. The series of events that followed was something out of a sitcom. First, a BHPD officer pulls over in his motorcycle. Then, the woman's husband comes running down the block out of nowhere, clutching his yarmulke to his head. Then, a parking enforcement officer pulls up to give me a ticket. If I had not been in an enraged state, I probably would not have known how to deal with all these concurrent occurences at once. But I was. So I did.

"Scuse me, ma'am. I was involved in a traffic accident. Don't give me a ticket."
"Oh, this car? Ok."
"Thanks."
"Hi Officer."
"Mornin. I'm Officer Sharp. How can I help?"
"This crazy woman hit me and now she won't give me her insurance info."
"Alrighty. Let's see what I can do."

It seemed that the hubbie had come running because he had the insurance card and car registration. Too perfect.

"Ma'am, I need you to give me your information so we can all be on our way."
"VUT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT! I CANNOT! ZIS BOY HIT ME AND YOU TALK TO ME LIKE THIS!"
"Ma'am I'm gonna need you to calm down. Just give me your information."
The husband pipes in, "Here. Here's de cards."

Officer Sharp hands me the cards. "Man, I sure am glad I'm not married to her. Son, you should be thankful you don't have to deal with that. Just imagine. Golllyy. Wakin' up to that every morning."

I couldn't see my own face at the time, but I'm pretty sure I was giving Officer Sharp a "Are you fucking for real??" look for about 10 minutes.

Officer Sharp continued to try to calm the psychopath, who was still behind the wheel, down. The husband did his best to write down my information as slowly as possible, and answer his cell phone periodically.

"Dude, can you like speed it up? I need to get to class."
"Vood you like to write it for me?"
"Don't you fucking patronize me you piece of..."
"Son, just calm down. Let him write your information down. You're being the mature one in this situation."
"Can you just get him to finish up and stop answering his damn phone!"
"Sir, we've been here for 30 minutes. This is taking far too long."
"I'm going as fast as I can, OK-HAY!"
"Alright that's it. I'm done." And Officer Sharp speeds away. Merry as ever.

Before leaving, I reattach my decimated bumper. I notice a missing reflector light on the side. I'm compelled to go Rambo on them and their ugly ass van. But then it'd be my fault. Which it's not. So I decide not to play the fool. Since they did such a good job of it on their own.

I give them one final "I hate your fuckin guts" look and drive off. To my stress class. Forty minutes late.

Now I play the waiting game. The waiting game of the insurance companies figuring out whose fault it was (of COURSE the scumbag lied). The waiting game of waiting for my poor car to be recuperated. The waiting game of figuring out how to manuever the granny-mobile.

Cue me saying, "It builds character."

Except I don't want any more character. I'd rather have things stop sucking than have character.

Meanwhile, anyone need a ride anywhere? Cause there's room in the backseat now. And also, I'm gonna beat the living hell out of this thing.
1:25 AM
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