what a jerk.
Why do I associate the word “jerk” with a man, not a woman? Is it because I’m a woman? Well, I’m going to break that association right now.
A few weeks ago, I was in a parking lot about to back out of my parking space when a woman whipped out of her spot across from me and hit me. It was bumper to bumper. My car had no damage at all, but hers did. A small crack in her bumper. Small.
She freaked the fuck out. When I walked around to the site of the impact, she was there, immediately yelling at me.
You wrecked my car!
Were you even looking?
I honked and honked. Why didn’t you stop?
First of all, her car was far from “wrecked“. Second, I was looking because I was about to pull out. Third, I hadn’t moved yet so I was already stopped. And it was quiet in that parking lot. There is no way in hell she honked. But even if she did, I was already stopped. What more could I have done?
(This looks nothing like her.)
I barely spoke. I just let her have her rant. When we exchanged information, I noticed a few things. She lived in a very wealthy town. She was also older—71. And her name was Priscilla. I shouldn’t stereotype, but she acted like she was better than me.
I admit, though, I didn’t actually say or think “what a jerk.” It was more like “what a bitch!”
He’s not a jerk. I know I have no way of confirming that, but I don’t care. I stand by my statement.
p.s. — This accident was just another example of how my life is a joke. I don’t know who’s laughing, but I feel like someone must be. Really. Something goes wrong, like, every other day. Or every day. Or several times a day.