The Light Stuff
To the gentlemen in the Ford f-150 who has insisted on turning his bright lights on as he goes up the on-ramp to the interstate behind me for the last 3 mornings, stop. Please, just stop. I don’t know what you think this is accomplishing. I can’t go any faster than the octogenarian in the Buick in front of me. I don’t plan on doing any light reading while I am driving, so I do not need the light. My sudden braking and the silohuette of my middle finger you can see thanks to my brightly-lit (by you) rear window, that is a sign that you should stop.
People that piss me off on the road get a whole lot more than my finger.