2002-12-15

So I informed my sister last night of her boyfriend�s illicit palm pilot activities on my PC, and of course she got all indignant and blah blah blah �I should be enough for him�-cakes about it; I cut her short and explained that I don�t care where he gets his creepy jollies but that I don�t want his hairy palms defiling my mouse from now on. Apparently she talked to him about it and he was duly repentant (because he was stupid enough to get caught), which explains why he skulked out of the apartment like a kicked dog this morning without saying a word to me � not before I accidentally washed the dishes while he was in the shower, of course. Don�t talk to me about passive aggressive, mofos. I INVENTED passive aggressive.

Except when it comes to motorized vehicles, in which case I give �passive� a miss and head enthusiastically on into �aggressive.� This morning I was nearly creamed by a festering jizz rag who was obviously FAR too busy and important to bother with trifles like, oh, taking a glance around for pesky mammalian bipeds who might importunately want to share the same road space as his Audi. Dickface was making a right turn and didn�t even slow down, much less shoulder check. Luckily, in situations like that, I have the reflexes of a highly trained ninja � not to save my own ass, mind, but to inflict damage on offending vehicles. Seriously, that is always the first thought in my head when I�m nearly mowed down by a jerkoff driver. My �fight or flight� response seems to be missing a little something to the tune of �flight.� Anyway, I unleashed my fearsome war cry, �Fuck you, you FUCKING ASSHOLE!� � it may not be eloquent, but it gets the job done � and managed to whip around and land a fairly solid punch on fuckwit�s tail light. I actually felt it rattle: a bit harder and I�d have broken it. Better luck next time, I suppose.