Everyone’s got their thing. For some, it’s baking. Others, gardening. Me? I like to take a modified Honda Accord, drive over 100 mph, and swerve between cars, almost killing entire families, babies, men, women, whoever.
That’s my thing. Gets my balls rolling. Sometimes I’ll almost kill a family by swerving in front of them at 125 mph with just barely enough room to squeeze in, and then I’ll immediately swerve all the way over to the right and get off at the exit. I could have just slowed down and changed lanes and calmly exited, not almost killing anyone, but then I wouldn’t have almost killed an innocent family, and almost killing them is what gives me something to do when I’m bored.
By the way, I’m not trying to actually kill one. That’s not my thing at all. If that’s what you’re getting from this, then I don’t know what you’re reading or how you thought that, but you’re totally off base.
My thing is that they’re thinking they might die, but really I’m just driving as fast as possible because I don’t fully understand the purpose of life. I have, like, a general sense? I know we’re supposed to have money and live somewhere, and we need to eat food, but after that, I don’t really get the rest of it.
But the one thing that really makes sense to me is coming out of nowhere in my jacked-up Honda Accord with purple lights, serving so fast in front of cars that people have mini heart attacks where they die, but it’s so fast they don’t actually have time to die, and when they come out of it, I’m already a mile away.
I’ve done this to, like, twelve families so far.
One thing I should make clear, though, is that I’m not a jerk. I don’t have to have my way. I’ll do this in a Kia Forte too. In fact, I have. My buddy has a Kia Forte, and he likes to almost kill families, too. So we’ll go out together, and sometimes we switch cars.
I don’t vote in elections. That feels relevant for some reason. I’m also not a good boyfriend. I try to be, but honestly? I don’t. She’s always saying things like “You care about your Honda Accord more than me.”
This court-ordered therapist I had to see once said I had trauma, and I was like… so? The therapist told me that I drive fast on the highway because I’m searching for an identity. File that one under “who gives a shit.” The therapist asked me how I feel when I swerve fast between cars, nearly killing people, and I said, “happy.”
It really is my happy place. My meditation. If I’m almost killing you in my modified Accord (or Toyota Corolla or Nissan Sentra), then I feel happy. You might be thinking, “Why doesn’t he just go to a race track if he wants to drive that fast?” Look. Put a few families with young kids on the track, let me swerve around them at 125 mph, and I’ll gladly drive on a track.
I can only imagine when I fly past a family, who is now catching their breath and feeling the fleeting nature of life, they think, “How did he get that Honda Accord to go so fast???” Well, I had a dream, and when you have a dream, you do what it takes. So I stopped paying child support or my rent, stole parts from other cars, and now I’m living the dream. My dream.
Oh, before I forget, I also like to go as fast as possible on an off ramp where it’s going from two lanes to one and I have a narrow opportunity to speed past the person in front of me to get in front of them before we both stop at the red light shortly thereafter, and almost make them crash into the side wall and go up in flames, myself included. Sometimes life gives you an opportunity to almost die in a heap of fire and wreckage, and I’ll take that opportunity. I’m willing to throw it all away and destroy someone else’s life in the process if I can get in front of them before the red light, even if we both have to burn to death.
Why? Can’t say. It just feels right. And it’s something to do.
