An Open Letter to the Drunk/High Woman Who Blocked Me In
Before I begin this open letter, I would like to provide some context—when I am not delivering you the latest in automotive news here on The News Wheel, I deliver pizzas for a very well-known international chain. As such, while I am working (as I did today), I wear a polo (logo embroidered on the chest), a hat (logo stitched onto the hat), and have a large, magnetic, light-up version of the store logo on the roof of my car.
First of all, may I call you Miss? I just kind of presume that you are single, since one of the first things you said to me (you know, after you blocked me into someone’s driveway and suddenly forgot how cars work) was that your ex-husband was tracking you.
In any case, I hope you feel better in the morning, because tonight you were like a nice loaf of bread: absolutely baked. Or possibly like a condor—really, really high. Either way, I would like to take this opportunity to point out that, when you said that you can’t figure out how to drive, it kind of freaked me out. After all, you had been driving directly behind me for a bit, there.
Also, I would like to take this opportunity to say that I was impressed with your car. It seems like a nice little Corolla, even if you said that it was only your second day of ownership.
And you sure acted like it—I have never before seen someone screw up driving an automatic transmission (although I have to admit that I was impressed by your ability to get the car going, drive a few doors down, pull into a driveway, and once again lose all ability to use the car—the windshield wipers are not typically connected to any driving components, but you sure did give ‘em hell).
Sorry, by the way, about the cops. I just thought that you needed some help (and to get way out of that car). Of course, you kind of confirmed my decision by nearly driving into me head-on as I was on the phone with police—good thing you remembered where the brake was!
I think I shall always remember you as I last saw you—lit from above by the sparse, cold light of the Corolla’s interior ceiling lamp, and offering the kind pizza guy either a litany of blown kisses, or a litany of terrifying curses that I couldn’t hear (although I will more than likely think of them every day until I die).
Sincerely, the terrified and concerned pizza guy that you blocked in last night.