Old man, I spoke too soon.

While you may have made the afternoon bearable...
Asshole in a white pick-up truck: fuck you.

Fuck you for going too fast at that stop sign and slamming into me while I was on my motorcycle.
Old lady that was in front of me, fuck you for pulling over and telling the cops that it was all my fault. I'm sorry that you're old and wrinkly and live in boulder creek, but why are you trying to fuck me? I had the right of way. I'm too broke for this to be pinned on me, when it clearly wasn't my fault.

Anyhow.
Traveling down the street, the complacency with which one thinks "I am about to be in an incredible amount of pain," is silly.

All I really remember of being hit by this truck is thinking, "There is a truck flying towards me." No screaming, no slamming on brakes(I didn't have any time to react, really), not much of anything. I thought the aforementioned thought, and all of a sudden, I was elsewhere, on the ground.
"I smell gas," I thought.
Oh, the smell of spilled gasoline. I usually enjoy your presence so, but not when you are coming out of my poor, poor, wounded motorcycle.
People everywhere screaming at me, asking if I was alright. Some dude with a ponytail helping me pick my bike up.

Then I fell over again. I was pretty dazed, and it was incredibly hard to stand at that point. I'm not sure how long I was out for, but it couldn't have been too long. Twenty seconds max, but that was enough time to be sent sailing across the oncoming lane, and skid to a halt in the mud.

Oh, poor, poor, wounded Simpson racing helmet. You were good to me. You saved my head.

Thanks, helmet.
Fuck you, dude in the f250.
My helmet is cooler than you ever will be. At least my helmet helped, instead of made my day that much shittier, like you did.

I am still amazed at the complacency with which thoughts were streaming through my head, moments before impact. It is so calm up there, knowing fully that I am about to get fucked.


Oh, silver and black motorbicycle, you were super duper.