Birthdays and Scooters

I always have the toughest conundrum on my birthday. See, I love having presents, but I hate birthday song. Its always a delicate battle between which of the two affect me more. Obviously, if I don't get the song sang to me, there's less of a chance for presents. However, everytime I hear that song, even when its not for me, every nerve attached to my spin screams with a burning pain and my mouth forgets how to smile politely and I get a stone cold frown.

I know, its such a happy song.

The only person that can get away with it is Grandma. Somehow she can call at 6:30 in the morning singing that song and I'm alright with it. This morning, she assumed that since I didn't answer I must have walked to the cathedral for the 9 A.M. service. Bless that woman for thinking so highly of me.

It was a good birthday. Lindsay came in town. We had drinks, pizza, Bachlorettes, and Cat, Jump! I've also discovered that I'm indeed a quarter of a century old. Saturday night, the bands didn't start until about 10 and I was already tired. By the time Cat, Jump! (Japanese Bat Bomb) got on stage I couldn't function. I was so tired I just wanted to sit in the background and not be bothered by anyone. If I wasn't going to get to go to sleep, I was going to enjoy the music in solitude. This didn't fly well with most the people there and by the end of the night I was angry and most everyone else was.

So you know how I told you about people feeling free to talk to me on the scooter at stoplights?

Well apparently that works both ways. A few days ago this skinny white kid cut me off and then jumped into the next lane. Normally in my self contained car environment I scream a few explictives and tailgate him for a quarter of a mile, but on a scooter I don't have any power. Honking the horn is actually worse than doing nothing.

So I didn't scream initially. Instead, we ended up right next to each other at a stop light and he had his windows down.

Now, I don't know where the rage came from and why I couldn't sensor myself, but this is what came out: "Hey, how would you feel if you got your ass kicked by a guy on a scooter?"

The skinny SLU student looked scarred, rolled his window up, and then didn't look toward my side of the car until the light turned green and he gunned it.

I figured I took all of his thunder by pointing out that yes, I was on a scooter, and yes, I could kick his ass. He wanting to leave his self respect intact, went for the flee option.