Angry? Mad as hell and you can't take it anymore? Get something off your chest and it could be published online and/or in print. Bitches are anonymous and may be edited for length, grammar, spelling and our lenient standards of propriety.
Wednesday, April 5, 2017
To the woman in the maroon SUV, who almost ran me over on Saturday afternoon just before one o'clock. I was crossing on a legal pedestrian light. You were southbound, turning left from Robie onto Cunard, and you would have hit me at full speed if I had not yelled “HEYYYY!” at the top of my lungs. Good thing I have quick reflexes and a strong voice, because otherwise you would have been paying for my funeral, or a lifetime of medical care. You did roll down your window and slow down a little, which is more than many drivers do when they almost kill someone, but you did not apologize, or change your facial expression from the smug, I-drive-an-SUV-and-you-don't, look that is probably baked into your face by now. "I didn't see you," you said. "You're dressed all in black." So this is MY fault? For the record, I wore pale khaki jeans, it was full daylight, and the backdrop was the snowy Commons, so don't tell me I'm not visible. I walked home shaken and in a rage. You could have said, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I should have been looking." But you didn't; you just drove away. —Khaki Pants
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