Dear Charlotte Commuter,

Please pay attention. I'd like to spend my 30th birthday with my husband and friends, and not in a fucking morgue, thanks.

See that little thing, right there? It's your turn signal, asshat. It activates these really cool blinky thingys (shown below) that let ME, the drive behind you, know that you would like to merge into my lane. Look. They blink.

If you ARE a dear and flick them before you get over on Electric Avenue, chances are I won't end up sitting in your lap, having flown through my wind shield. That wasn't quite the windblown look I was going for.

Additionally, see this?

That, my speed racer friend, (g-g-go, SPEED, GO!) is a brake pedal. Let's say it together: BRAKE. PEDAL. Okay, now just you. I'll wait.

It should be treated like a penis. Namely, you want to handle it gently and not SLAM!DOWN!ON!IT! at the last minute, leaving me swerving behind you trying to avoid that vehicular homicide that you so thoughtfully set me up for. I know I said I needed a break, but jail? might be a little too constricting. I realize that sitting behind the wheel of several tons of glistening liquid speed might be a little overwhelming for you (especially when Nascar Day is a state sponsored holiday!), but please, darling, let's take it slow.

Let's review:

Blinker if you want to merge.
Brake Pedal = penis. Be Gentle.

Fuckyouverymuch and Have a Great Day!

TCWH.

Perplexed: By the non-stop midget wrestling ads on the radio.