That wasn't really an admission, more of an apologetic note about my personality. It's not like I'm just now discovering this. I've been fully aware of my patience impediment since I first started destroying traffic cones in high school. To this day, the smell of burning rubber reminds me of dragging the orange cones along, caught under the car, without a care in the world - the driving instructor running behind the car, waving at me, yelling what I can only assume were words of encouragement. (It's not like I could see him. I was sitting on a stack of phone books and still couldn't see much in the rear view mirror.)
Ahh. Memories.
I don't know why or where it comes from. I have a thought that it may somehow stem from my height (or lack thereof), like some sort of twisted Napoleon complex in which I pay the world back for their slightly longer dimensions by driving ruthlessly.
That's not important. What I'm saying here is; for some strange reason, my insatiable blood lust is ignited at being cut off, honked at, lack of proper turn signaling or really, just appearing to be too happy in the car next to me.
I am not incredibly proud of this, but I don't really have plans to stop.
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