I lock eyes with her. She has soft brown hair and freckles. She floats as she comes towards me…in a black SUV. A black SUV barreling around the corner as I drudge to my 8AM math class. The vehicle narrowly misses my nose.

Naturally, my first thought is, ‘Bitch.’ My second thought is, ‘Fucking bitch.’

“Nice!” I yell after her. “Thanks a lot!”

Shaking my head, I continue a few paces and reach the crosswalk. Notice, here, that I say I am at a crosswalk. Yes, doll, I use the frikin’ crosswalk! Cross-walk. Break the word up.

A white car speeds past me. I stumble backwards. All I see is that the driver is female and wearing a ponytail. I can’t hunt her down with that kind of vague detail. Drat.

“Also nice! But you hesitated, so you lose ten points!”

Aw, what the heck, she can lose 9.8 points. I’m in a giving mood. But, next time, I’m hurling a grenade through the back window. Match and set.

Now, I’ve pretty much accepted that cars like to run me over. It’s not that I’m a particularly interesting target. My clothes and hair are disheveled. My book-bag is an ordinary, cancerous growth on my hip. There is nothing spectacular about the items I yield at death. In fact, running me over is like beating a boss in super easy mode – you don’t tell your friends about it. Perhaps this is why I would make good roadkill.

Like a possum or a skunk.

It is now roughly noon and I am making my way back across campus. A green something-or-other faces me. The sportsman behind the wheel sizes me up, determines me easy pickings, and speeds up just enough to set me off balance as I jump onto a curb in terror. Arms crossed, I watch him drive away. He reaches the nearby stop sign and half turns to look at me. I glare. He bolts from the scene. ‘Okay,’ I think, ‘I am asking for a machete this Christmas.’