You know, I hate to be one of those people that just blogs mean unhappy bile whenever they get the notion. I realize that doing so is not really pleasant for those of you who for whatever reason actually read this crap. But, that's the place I'm in right now and these are the words that have poured out of my brain. I promise that someday soon it will be warm and springy and I'll blog about honeybees and tomato plants and all that happy crap.

Until then....

I stopped by work this morning so that I could run out and buy colored paper for the copy machine and bags for our vacuum cleaner which was manufactured, I believe, sometime during the Eisenhower administration. Returning to work with said bags and colored paper, I attempted to turn right off of the Boulevard into the parking lot of the store, as I do at least once a day. Now, I should say that, much like Rain Man, I am an excellent driver. Or, at least, a careful one. My daddy drilled into my head at an early age to be watchful of all the fucking idiots out there who can't drive and who will kill your ass if you aren't careful. The turn from Bragg into the parking lot is a tricky one, since it isn't obviously a driveway, and it is made trickier by the fact that every fucking moron who lives in this shithole town feels the need to consistently drive 20 miles over the posted speed limit. So. I turned my signal on way early, as I do every day, so that anyone behind me can see me turning. I tapped my brakes, as I do every day, so that, yet again, whatever fucktard who happens to be behind me can see way early what I'm doing.

And I looked into my rear view mirror, right before I turned in, just to make sure that nobody was about to hit me, which is how I knew before I felt the impact that the idiot behind me was about to hit me. It was kinda slow-mo, me thinking "Wow, he's gonna hit me..." and then trying to gun the gas right quick hoping that I'd coast on out of the way...then CRUNCH. Hard enough to make my seatbelt catch, hard enough to knock my coffee and my iPod into the floorboard, not hard enough to make the airbag shoot out thank goodness because frankly I'm pretty scared of the airbag and I hear that they're expensive to replace. Not much damage to the car, a little fender dent and some black smudges. Not much damage to me, a little stiff and achy but I keep telling myself that it's just from the cold, not from the crash.

Because it wouldn't matter if I'd busted my head right through the windshield, since the fucking asshole who hit me sped away down the Boulevard, cutting off other cars and weaving in and out of traffic. A Buick, similar to mine but green, with the right front quarter panel white like it wasn't the first time they'd hit someone in just exactly that manner. Dark dark tinted windows, of course. Shiny non factory fancy silver rims, of course. North Carolina plates, though even with her glasses Granny wasn't able to see the tag number because the car was going so fast. And of course everyone else driving down both sides of the Boulevard saw it happen, but nobody stopped, and nobody inside the store saw anything because they were real busy anyway and it's hard to see that far out the window. 

I wasn't going to do anything at all, seeing as how it's Fayettenam, and I'm probably lucky that the douchebag who hit me didn't stop, shoot me in the face and take my wallet while he was at it. But one of my coworkers pointed out that it might be nice to have a police report, just in case I wake up tomorrow and can't move. So, I called 911 and made a report and waited half an hour at the store for the police. Well, not the police, the Civilian Crash Patrol that the police department created because nobody here can fucking drive and the real police were sick of spending all day going from one crash to another. He was real nice, a little old round man, who basically told me that there was nothing that he could do for me other than give me a little slip of paper stating that there was a hit and run. No tag number, after all.  And piece of shit car with tinted windows and expensive wheels doesn't exactly narrow anything down around here.

So. It could have been much worse. I wasn't hurt, the car is OK, nobody got killed. But still, the idea of it just chaps my ass. Who the fuck just crashes into someone and DRIVES AWAY? I mean, what if I'd had a kid in the car? What if I had been hurt? He (I'm assuming he. Could have been she.) sped away so fast that there was no way he knew how much damage was done. Probably had no license or no insurance or pending warrants or all three. Fucking asshole. Karma's a bitch, though.

And then, just before handing me my useless slip of paper, the little Civilian Crash patrol dude looks at me, my baggy "It's my day off and it's 20 degrees outside" giant hoodie, and asks me if I'm pregnant.

Because, you know, a hit and run on my damn day off wasn't shitty enough.

Fuck. I'm tired, and I don't just mean the go to sleep wake up feel better kind. Anyone want to run away to Mexico with me? Anyone? Ah, didn't think so. :)