It's 5:45. I've come across the Ross Island bridge, and am headed up the hill to get onto the 405 where I will eventually get onto Highway 30. And there you are again, you dumb f*ck-ass.
I've been inching up the hill for the past 10 minutes. NPR is keeping me company. This isn't my happy time, but having just left work it's pretty damn close. And there you are. F*ck-ass.
You zipped up the hill, through the lights and now you want into my lane. You're lingering, right before the ramp down onto the highway. F*ck-asses. Blinker on. Just WAITING for me to break so that you can squeeze in and head home to Beaverton. No. I waited for 10 damn minutes to get on the freeway. You? Mr. F*ck-ass? You didn't. So guess what, f*ck-ass? I'm gassing this bitch and not letting you in. Wait for another sucker who isn't in a hurry to go home.
F*ck-asses. All of 'em.
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