Going Postal

I failed to mention this story from the weekend in previous posts, but perhaps it is serendipitous; I think a story of this magnitude warrants its very own post.

On Saturday, I woke up completely late and was rushing out of the house to meet Mandi at Union Station. I jaywalked across Ardmore, whilst chatting on my mobile, and blocked passage for our mailman who was trying to leave our apartment complex. He lightly tapped his horn to indicate my transgression, and though I knew I was totally at fault, an anger within me raged and I made a poor choice. I walked up to the hood of his van showed him my middle finger and told him what he could do with himself.

I did not expect him to react so quickly and violently, but he revved his engine in neutral, then dropped it in gear and made a beeline toward me. I had to dive and roll to avoid his wrath, and as I watched that white Caravan careen across Ridge, leaving me in a cloud of white smoke, I cried hot tears for the brush with mortality I had just experienced. I could have died!

A brief poem:

Pardon me, I was just aggressed against by he who should seek to serve my postal needs.
Pardon me, I just provoked a man who did nothing wrong and probably hates his life.

Mayhap it was the drum and bass blaring in my ears; the phone on which I was conversing; the consuming self-loathing process I routinely cognize through.

Pardon me. I was just aggressed against in front of my own home.
Pardon me. I’m in the wrong, but something in my feels prompted to fight you.
Pardon me. I’m just a temp, don’t hassle me.
Pardon me. I’m busy rushing, limping, hobbling to where I need to be.