lobsterchick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- No, Seriously, 18 Inches I was trying to make a right turn out of a gas station into a left turn lane, which involved crossing a regular, straight-going lane. The left turn lane was backed up for about ten cars, since it was rush hour, and I was starting to inch out, since an SUV had waved me in. The car before it went ahead, and I was working out how to fit in the space when a red car from the opposite lane decided to capitalize on the gap in traffic to make a left turn into the parking lot. That's when the woman in the white SUV, who, for the record, was going way the hell too fast in rush hour traffic, in the rain, on a road that's got a speed limit of 30 mph completely plowed into the red car. This happened, as all car accidents do, in a matter of seconds. It also happened about eighteen inches from my front bumper. No one was hurt, and each driver looked extremely pissed. My legs shaking, I backed into the gas station parking lot, got myself turned around, and decided to take the long way home. Just as I tend to forget (if I haven't gotten a ticket in a while) that yes, the police will pull you over if you're speeding, it's hard to remember, every day as you tool around town and drive to and from work, that the car you're driving is a two-ton lethal weapon. Mostly I think of my car as a pile of crap that gives me endless heartache at the gas pump, doesn't have a CD player, but does have a big dent in the back left side of it. So I do things like run pink lights and drive too fast and talk on my cell phone while I'm driving. Until something happens like an accident right in front of me. Then I'm good for, like, a week. When I forget all over again. 12:45 AM - 23 April 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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