Dear Assholes,
I'm going to try to keep this cordial. And don't think I already failed just because I used the word "assholes." See, in this case, it's a simple statement of fact. Yes, anyone who actively tries to murder another human is scientifically an asshole. And sure, you didn't come at me with a knife or a gun. Oh no, it was much more deadly! Instead you assholes came at me with several thousand pounds worth of vehicles. How very sporting of you to make it such a fair fight when 1) I didn't know I was going to have to defend myself, and 2) I'm a 125-pound female on a 30-pound bicycle.
It was also great that you were both men. Sure, regarding the first one of you sh*tfaces who tried to kill me last week, I probably would've been able to take you down with my spindly little limbs alone had we actually set up a time to rumble fairly. And not because you were smaller than me. Oh no, your driving habit and high-volume gut assured me that you were, indeed, HUGE. I'd beat you because of your cowardly nature. I mean, really, what adult man is so scared of a skinny bitch on a bike that he feels the need to cower in his bucket seat when politely confronted the same way a kitten does the first time it encounters a bucket of water? All I did when I inevitably caught up with your douchmobile BMW Z3 at that red light at 16th and Irving was ask why it was that you had just tried to murder me. It was a simple question. Maybe you should've just ran the red light and killed the other cyclist on the road, you know, the one who was legally crossing on Irving. Then you wouldn't have had to deal with my completely uncomplicated and straightforward inquiry, while just sitting there looking like such a doofus with your out-of-state plates.
I also asked why it is that you shouted to me, "GET ON THE SIDEWALK!" whilst you were running me dangerously into the curb. See, that's a more than fair question because not only was I fully within my rights as a cyclist to ride on the street, but IT IS AGAINST THE LAW FOR ME TO RIDE ON THE SIDEWALK.
Hmm. I guess I gave you too much credit. I thought maybe you'd understand. I mean, one look at the crowded sidewalk filled with pedestrians, strollers, small children and wolf-packs of teenagers getting out of school, should be enough to give even the dumbest idiot a clue. Alas, you simply said, "Er, uh, derp, duh," until, of course, the light changed. Then you yelled again, "I HOPE YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE." What? A billion dollars? A prize? A toned ass for cycling up hills on the reg? Uh, OK... I hope I get that, too. And I hope you considered my extended middle finger a partying gift.
And while I was mildly annoyed by your cowardly antics, what really concerns me is what your friend did today. Or maybe you're not friends. I'm assuming you are because, judging by the way this second jerkoff also tried to murder me (this time in a delivery truck, no less!), I'm guessing you guys might be in the same club, the Let's Get Deadly Close to Cyclists While They're Doing Absolutely Nothing Wrong Club. Sirs, may I suggest the Hair Club for Men instead? It would serve you both much better...
But I digress. Back to the issue at hand, this time I was on Massachusetts Ave., again doing nothing wrong, unless of course getting exercise while saving money on gas is a criminal offense. (Are you lazy morons just jealous?) I mean, it's obvious you both need therapy because murdering folks just because they lead a healthier and cleaner lifestyle than you is highly deviant. And also highly against the law. I mean, c'mon, you're a fat bald dude in a delivery truck who whizzed by me so close and so fast that the draft that came off your vehicle actually made me involuntarily swerve. Not only that, but your barking command to, "GET IN THE BIKE LANE!" was extra glorious because THERE IS NO BIKE LANE ON MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE. Is your eyesight as dim as your brain power? Because that's really scary then.
And just because there's no bike lane available to me (dear lord, I wish there was), that doesn't mean I don't belong on the road on my bike. What it means is you should be cautious of how you drive. I mean, really, must I remind you babydicks that you're not in Bumblefuck, Maryland anymore? (Both had Maryland plates.) You're in an urban area, a city, where the speed limit runs about 30 mph, and much slower during times of high traffic, like lunch hour, the exact time I happened to be on Mass Ave. today.
Of course, this is probably silly. Trying to talk rationally to you, a grown-up so irrational that you actually started SCREAMING at me at the top of your smoke-encrusted lungs after, again, I inevitably caught up with you at a red light and, again, inquired as to why you just tried to murder me is probably a pointless exercise. And so instead, I'll leave you with just this thought, which should be easier for you to grasp: "Go f*ck yourself." And that's when I fell off the cordial wagon.
Burn in hell assholes,
Marissa
