I gave a friend some advice tonight:

Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever infinity go crazy. There's way too much administrative overhead.

My life right now is barely recognizable from what it was a few weeks ago. I've been to Crazy School, gotten a new shrink, been put on new meds, and I have several big decisions to make, all of which could potentially alter my life.

See, that sucks. I feel better than I did when killing myself seemed like the logical thing to do, but that still sucks.

What suckser is all the bonus crap that happens while the main event is taking place. You'd think the universe would be satisfied with the job it did by sticking its finger in my head and mixing up my thinky chemicals, but no - the universe was just getting started.

After a successful week in Portland with friends and family (not sure what made it a success - I just wanted an adjective (even though it's considered bad form (I don't give a damn, though, as you've noticed, since I've always figured that adjectives were made to be used))), I was driving home on I-5 north when, at approximately some time in the afternoon at approximately some miles south of Seattle, this total dickhead meth freak steered his '98 Olds into my gorgeous little car and negatively affected my mood.

It was holiday traffic. That means a strange holiday gridlock which, unlike regular old plain-and-normal-day gridlock, is actually moving. To be specific, it's moving at seventy miles per hour. To be specificer, it's moving in one direction.

(If that last detail about the direction of traffic helped you set the scene in your head, then hurrah. If not, then forget I said anything. Also, forget this sentence, the one before it, and the one before that one.)

Before I continue, let's get something straight: I'm an asshole driver. I have no illusions about being a Nice Guy out there on the road. I break the law and I do stupid things, but there's a time and a place. I'm sure some of you would disagree with that last statement, but you'd be surprised at how empty a freeway can be at 3:00 AM. From what I've learned, the only people out at that time are the cops.

One time when I'm most definitely not an asshole driver is during holiday traffic. You've got all these bozos out there in vehicles packed with humans, and it's just not safe. The more humans you add to something, the dangerouser that thing becomes. Humans are scary. They do stupid stuff. For example, if it weren't for humans, there wouldn't be bungee jumping. Ipso facto, or whatever the appropriate Latin legalese is, ergo facto (still trying with the Latin), de facto homo habilis, hic hoc hunc h... Oh, fuck it.

So, there's all these people on the road, and they're all hyperfocused on keeping their beverages safe. In recent years, as some of my fellow 'Mericans have observed, cupholders have surpassed airbags in overall importance as it relates to a positive driving experience. You could have all the safety in the world, but if you don't have nineteen cupholders, each capable of gripping a pony keg, your wife will leave you and your children will spit in your food. I'm serious.

Not me, though. I was focused on smiling because it was sunny and I was in a good mood because my meds were setting chemicals back in their appropriate places within my brainal area.

That's when meth-face jack-ass asshole asshead asshat assass assassassaaaassssss ran into me.

At seventy miles an hour, people. That's, like, a billion kilometers per hour. According to my Conversion Charts, that's fast enough to generate eight gigajules. That's the equivalent of ninety-nine hectare cubic volts. Like, imagine if you had a van, and it was a really, really, really big van - and now imagine that you put some stuff inside. See? You could put a lot of stuff in that van. Ipso de facto. Cum laude s'il vous plait. Maximus! Maximus! MAXIMUS!

My car was knocked off balance, but thanks to years of driving like an asshole, I've actually gotten pretty good at recovery. I was heading straight as though back on rails in no time.

But not methass. As much as I wish his arms would explode (think about it - couldn't do much without your arms), I still have some compassion for this faceass pisswhip. I watched in my rear-view mirror as he swerved into the barrier. His car went momentarily vertical. It took me by surprise. My mouth was open, and I was all, "Wow. What a molepicking prickfruit."

I pulled over. It seemed like the thing to do. Believe it or not, I was concerned about whether the guy was OK. I'm not a fan of his driving, but that doesn't mean he deserved to meet some terrible end because of one dumb mistake. A mistake that's going to cost me a thousand bucks, which is like a bajillion Canadian bucks, which is like twelve-trillion francs, or one single limestone tradewheel of the Incas.

Notice the slight hint of tire on my door.

I had every intention of exiting my (damaged (I'm not bitter)) vehicle and checking up on him, but it wouldn't be necessary. He was out of his car before the dust had even settled, and he was running toward me before he was even out of his car, and the temporal paradoxes only get more complicated from there.

He was yelling something on his way over. Absolutely frantic. I couldn't quite make it out, but I thought it was something like, "Can we please exchange insurance information? I'm terribly sorry to have caused you this inconvenience."

That's not what he said.

When he was close enough that I could understand his frothy message, I was able to distinguish the words, "FLARGH BLABH GAAAAAAH." That's French for, "Can we please exchange insurance information? I'm terribly sorry to have caused you this inconvenience."

He also delivered his words in International Sign Language. If anybody out there speaks this stuff, then please email me and let me know what it means when someone repeatedly pounds on your window and tells you to get out of the car so that he can kick your ass. I felt there was a disconnect between the words and the gesture, and I just want clarification.

It was a real PCP moment. I thought he might punctuate his dispatch by thrusting his head through my windshield. If he did that, I was going to spray him in the eyeballs with the Amouage Ciel I had in my bag. I figured he'd think it was mace, and the placebo effect would do the rest.

Frikking noseplunging rootercolon.

And that, Felix, is why I haven't been able to drop off your Netflix movie. For the record, though, your first mistake was leaving the damn thing in my car to begin with. You remember that chocolate milk that you bought when you were up here last? Well, it's still in the fridge waiting for you. You should know by now that there are two (2) things I don't do:

1. Check, open, send, or otherwise interact with mail.

2. Throw away your chocolate milk, you slob.

I'm going to bed. Somebody wake me when the universe decides to play nice and Felix stops leaving his chocolate milk in my fridge.