Not That Guy Again!

I've always hated four-way stops. They are like russian roulette. Or in high school when you really didn't want to get stuck with 'that guy' as your lab partner.

Every time I get to one I stop my car and look around. I judge the other cars based on their appearance, and the age of their drivers. Knowing that one of them is destined to get in front of me, I wait with baited breath to find out who I'm going to be stuck with for the next five blocks.

Could it be that shiny black Corolla with the douchey sunglasses guy even though it's cloudy with a ninety percent chance of rain?

What about the stereotypical Buick with the man who look like he's pounding on death's door begging to be let in?

Maybe it's the minivan with the woman who's constantly pushing her Yorkie off her lap because she hasn't discovered doggie seat belts yet.

Shit.

I got the cement truck that goes five miles an hour even though it is safe to drive thirty miles an hour or above.

I really hope no one from my insurance company ever looks inside my car because I'm going to have an extremely tough time explaining huge dent in my steering wheel from where I banged my head so many times.

Hey. I was going five miles an hour. It was perfectly safe to do that.