I f***ing hate cars.

Driving, being driven, even being around them; I hate it all. They disgust me, make me sick to my stomach, enrage me. If possible, every last car in this city would be eradicated by yours truly. And if you had gone through what I had to experience, you would wish the same fate upon those hellish metal cages.

Back then, I lived in a pseudo-colonial condo priced appropriately for the wallet of my single father. I spent my summer days doing yard work, hosing down cars, and perpetuating various other stereotypes of the young and impoverished. Perhaps because of this, I held in my heart a certain resentment for those kids skating and roller-blading, for those sweaty pre-teens furiously pedaling along in the June swelter. To be blunt about it, I just wanted to go for a damn bike ride, and for once, my parents had decided to give me a day off.

Upon waking up that morning, I meandered to my window with the grace of a very, very stoned hippopotamus. In the front yard, magenta flower petals fell from the poorly trimmed trees; probably cherry blossoms. A breeze agitated the petals into a dance; a naturally occurring nature flick for my own personal viewing. The sun had yet to reach its full position in the sapphire-blue hemisphere, so its slanted rays refracted remarkably in our cheap plastic windows.

Seeing that the early afternoon weather was perfect for a bike ride, I grabbed my chunk of rust and hit the off-brand garage door opener. The ancient iron mass creaked its way open, auburn colored water damage and all. A rush of air blasted cooly into the space, kicking up the permanent layer of dust that had always inhabited the corners and crevices inside, which created an incredible scent. The dust, the spring leaves, even the motor oil caked on the concrete had a pleasant odor.

A couple of hours later, I was five or six miles into my favorite route, a loop around the University’s campus. My muscles ached, knees groaned, forehead thoroughly roasted in the high noon sun, but I had no intention of stopping. I knew from previous experience that a dangerous intersection lay ahead, where trees blocked all sight lines between the sidewalk and the asphalt driveway of a rich, rich neighborhood. Take it slow, I thought. I’d yet to encounter any cars on that stretch of road, but I knew it never hurts to be cautious.

Pressing down gently on my handbrake, I glided downhill over the perfectly smooth tan concrete. Slow and steady. I approached the sculpted bushes that marked the million dollar neighborhood, noting the way that the carved brush creatures sneered at my oversized, moderately priced ride. Look both ways. Glancing over and seeing that the gigantic drive was empty as usual, I forged onwar-

Schwump! My chest hit the ground first, immediately followed by my elbow, which went Crack! against the concrete. My diaphragm became concave, forcing the air out of my lungs. I started to cough, shocked by the distinct lack of oxygen, but my hacks were drowned out by the sound of metal screaming across concrete. Sense of self having been temporarily pulverized, I spread out on the scorching pavement, head pounding and skin aflame. As the shock wore off, my confusion increased; who had so violently assaulted me? What just happened? All of my questions were answered when I lifted my spinning head.

I won’t even try to describe the remarkable stream of vulgarity that ran through my mind. I summed it up for the driver, though.

“What the f***? What the f***!?”

The woman simply stared at me, as if somehow surprised by my exclamation.
“What!?!? Why the f***!!! You did that???” I racked my brain, searching for the words to express my all-consuming confusion. Again, I received a blank stare.

I gathered myself up, shock temporarily keeping the pain at bay. My bike lay in middle of the drive, the frame twisted into an ugly sculpture to rival the nearby bushes. The pedals had flown several feet away into the main road, scattered across yellow and white lines alike in various sharp fragments. 

Vruuhhhmm! The car engine came to life once more. It sucks to get hit by a car, but it sucks even more to get hit twice, so exiting the main road became a pressing priority. I grabbed my newly-formed piece of modern art and returned to the sidewalk from which I had been so rudely separated. The would-be assassin lurched forward, guiltlessly crushing any pedal shards in its path. Smoothly spinning the wheel as if nothing had happened, the woman pulled out of the drive. As she merged into the street, I glimpsed a quick motion through the molasses tint of her passenger window.

To this day, I have never felt so entirely disheartened, so completely discouraged, as when I witnessed a soccer mom who struck a child with her car, a woman who caused blatant harm to a kid, hold her middle finger aloft as she fled the scene of her crime. I have never witnessed something as cruel, as sadistic, as absolutely abhorable, and while I have quite the stint yet to complete as a citizen of this world, I sincerely doubt that I shall come face to face with another human being who rivals her complete lack of empathy.

But her car, her motorized death-box, is the true target of my displeasure. Why might I hold such a vehement hatred in my heart for an inanimate marvel of engineering? I won’t lie, it could quite possibly have been the McCain sticker on her bumper. It could be that it’s easier to blame the car, that I don’t want to think another person possible of such terrible, terrible thing.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, hatred scares me. The fact that for a moment, just one moment, I wished actual harm to befall her; maybe that sticks with me. And I didn’t want to see her get slugged in the arm, I didn’t want Santa to bring her coal. No, I wanted to see her crash that car, and I didn’t want her to walk away from it. For a moment, I actually wanted another human being to die, to cease to exist, to end. For a moment, I was not me. I wasn’t a third grader who liked to play soccer at lunch. I wasn’t a yo-yo novice. I wasn’t that guy who smiles when he plays with his little sister, when he teaches her how to throw a frisbee or to spell her own name. I wasn’t a person who values humanity, life, and love above all.

I f***ing hate cars.

Driving, being driven, even being around them; I hate it all. They disgust me, make me sick to my stomach, enrage me. If possible, every last car in this city would be eradicated by yours truly. And if I were ever to see that silver menace wandering the roadways, no brake light would be safe from my wrath.

But if I were to see that woman at a coffee shop, at a bookstore, or just walking down the street flipping children off left and right, I wouldn’t lift a damn finger. Sure, I might hate what she did. I certainly hate her car for doing it. I might hate her guts for walking away from a child in pain. But the way I see it, the only way I can refute the actions of a sadist- and therefore overcome their influence- is to screw my humanity to its sticking place. Stooping to her level and becoming the antagonist is, despite of the deeply rooted satisfaction this indulgence would give me, not the solution. To truly overcome her negative influence, only one course of action can be taken; not to forgive, but to forget. I cannot allow her to steal those human qualities I value from me simply for the sake of revenge. She would lure me into a cycle of hatred and frustration, a state of perpetual resentment.

How dare she even f***ing try.