To the large Dodge truck behind me at the stoplight

Dear ma'am:

I'm not sure why you felt the need to keep inching closer and closer to me while we both sat at a red light.

Were you hoping that I would get the hint and start inching out into 55-miles per hour traffic? Because I'm not going to. I'm polite, but I'm not that polite.

Did you think you would arrive at your final destination faster if you were on top of my car when the light changed?

Has your car developed a mind of its own and found itself overwhelmingly attracted to my car and, in the manner of a love-struck Herbie, moved of its own volition, as a flame to a moth? Because my car is not actually that sort of girl, nor was she feeling that kind of attraction.

Were you playing some sort of strange "How close can I get" game? Because that's a good way to find yourself replacing my bumper. Or, if I were a different sort of person, getting shot in the face.

Best Wishes,

Nemesis

ps. My sister Jenny wants you to know that she is totally up for playing that game with you, on account of she could use a new bumper.

Gentle readers, who would you like to write a letter to?

Posted in: on my crap list