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Nine Seconds

Nine seconds is the time it takes me to cross the street near my house.

A street that is a four way stop and has crosswalks.  Which should indicate that there will be crossing of said street; and cars, trucks, bicycles, etc. should be stopping to let the people, cats, dogs, occasional squirrel, cross the street.

It takes about six seconds for me to lose my temper when crossing and a guy driving a large white truck can’t wait for me to get to the other side.  He pauses at his stop sign and then roars up to stop a few feet away from me.

For some reason vehicles moving toward me cause me to stop walking.  Not sure why and it may turn out to be unhealthy but it is what it is right now.

The driver and I exchange glances…more like a glare on my part.  He revs the engine.  This action does not calm my temper and I glare at him some more.

He flaps his hand at me to move on, an annoying gesture I detest, and revs the engine some more.

I would like to say that I went all Ghandi on him and with a small lift of my chin continued to walk.  I really would like to say that.  But alas, I break eye contact, continue to walk and throw a right handed procreation sign at him.

I berate myself for not being like Ghandi or even Russell Brand who seems like a nice centred British gent.

As truck roars down the street I comfort myself with the thought that the handicapped plague on the rear view mirror must be there to let us all know that the driver is a brain dead scum sucking mutant.

Works for me.


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