At 9:14 am yesterday morning, while driving on Roosevelt Circle, I had to brake for a chipmunk. I didn't want to kill it, and I'm still a little bitter about that. The braking and the giving a damn. A sham of caring on my part, my perimenopausal self ever quick to cry, a brittle exterior barely containing a fragile interior. It's a conundrum, wrapped in a beach towel, surrounded by a nightmare.
But, I daresay, Sir Chipmunk, that should we cross paths again, I will not be so kind. I'm not saying that I will run you over, but I might wait longer to brake. Yes, brake late to send the message that "I" am in control here! That your lingering in the road could have most unfortunate consequences, and not by my design or intent! Oh no. You could find yourself ushered into Rodentia Eternity, a place teeming with lemmings desperately in search of a cliff...and the sea. Oh, the crushing waves and cold caress of the North Atlantic. Is that what you want? Is it? For that is what you shall have should you choose to challenge me in the open street again. As God is my witness, my foot shall not budge from the accelerator, nor the pressure applied to the pedal ease!!!11!
You have been warned.
Yours in Christ,
me
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