My maker and I just slightly missed out on the opportunity to share an afternoon cup of coffee.
That’s right, I could have died today. The death car, as I like to call it, came speeding and sliding around a blind corner north of my neighborhood. I was heading north, on my way to the evil Wal-Mart, when I thought I was going to die. The 1997-99 Pontiac Grand Am was red in color, quite fitting considering my blood could have blanketed the asphalt. Oh the symbolism. The two bastard teenage boys nearly ran off the road, regained control then sped past me as I desperately hugged the shoulder, slowing down to about 10.
Obviously I lived. They missed me by about 100 feet. This turned out to be one of those “what if” situations. What if I had been driving the normal 10 over the speed limit? For some reason I consciously adhered to the 25 mph residential speed limit. What if I had left the house 30 seconds earlier? I could be dead.
This was serious. The reason I know this is because I actually worried first about my life and not the damage the car may have sustained. That’s a tell-tale sign for me.
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