Open letter to whoever it was driving a green car headed west on Van Horne at about 70 km/h today just after noon:
As you can’t help but know, you almost hit me. Notice how your brakes didn’t do the slightest thing to slow your headlong travel? That’s because it’s winter here, with snow at the intersections, and fresh snow everywhere. These things impede friction, which cars need in order to stop.
You should be thanking God—as I am—that there was no traffic in the lane I had to pull into to avoid getting smashed by you. Even if you’re an atheist you should be thanking God. Also you should be thankful that you didn’t hit the minivan behind me either.
You should be thankful that I didn’t get your license plate number. I was too busy veering out of my lane, and then after that I was in an adrenaline haze, and then after that I was shaky and just wanted to get home. If I’d gotten your plate number, I’d be on the phone to the police right now. I kind of hope the people in the van got it, but I doubt it.
I hope, too, that you wet your pants, and drove home in a puddle of cooling piss. Not very Christmassy, but then neither were the names I called you, either.
If you’re feeling remorseful about how you nearly ran me down today, I have the solution: Go to the police station. Ideally have someone else drive you, since evidently you have no clear idea what you’re doing. Hand over your driver’s license, and tell them you won’t be needing it anymore, at least for a few years. Get a bus pass. Sell your car.
There’s no excuse. Winter didn’t just start today. Even if you’re new to this country, or even this part of this country, you’ve had a few weeks to practice your winter driving. The STOP sign was clearly marked. The speed limit is well below how fast you were going.
Well, I guess I’m done shouting into the wind. I hope you learned something from this. If not, I hope I never, in all my life, encounter you again.
Thanks for not killing me, no matter how hard you tried.