Dear Fuckface:

I had a lovely night on Friday. Oh, sure, it wasn’t exciting by most people’s standards; I went to Target and gleefully killed off the giftcard that my dad sent me for Christmas, and then I went to Borders and read magazines until closing time. Then I drove home, parked in my assigned spot, got my purchases out of the trunk, and went inside to make myself a cup of Aztec hot chocolate, which I enjoyed while watching CSI.

On Saturday morning, I got up, showered, and puttered around my apartment until 1PM, at which point I gathered up my stuff to leave. I planned to stop at the library, and then go straight from there to my boyfriend’s house. We didn’t have any major plans for the weekend, but I was looking forward to spending time with him, just laughing and talking and maybe going out to see a movie.

Well, when I got to my car, I put my laundry basket and overnight bag on the passenger seat, and when I closed the door, I dropped my keys. I bent down to pick them up, and I noticed what appeared to be a sliver of plastic, about three inches long, on the ground.

A piece of plastic that was the exact same shade as my car.

With dread mounting in my heart, I walked around to the back and saw that you had hit the back of my car, knocking the trunk lid askew, fucking up the paint on the bumper, and cracking my tail light.

Ever the cockeyed optimist, I checked under my windshield wiper, but of course there was no note to be found.

I know nobody likes to deal with insurance companies, anonymous driver. Hell, I work for one, and I don’t like to deal with them myself. And I know you were probably scared, and you didn’t want your rates to go up, but goddammit, if you hit someone’s parked and unoccupied car and cause damage, you are both legally and morally bound to LEAVE A FUCKING NOTE.

Merry Christmas to you too, you syphilitic cum bubble. Please do me a favor and die in a fire posthaste.

No love,
C