road rage and the pectoral guy

I've never accosted a stranger, blind with previously-inert rage before. That is until some fuckidiot on a motorbike decided to take me on.
I hadn't had my morning cuppa Joe yet.

The middle-aged balding nutcase cut me and another car off on his Kawasaki. It was in an area of town I am unfamiliar with, so I'm the first to admit I had no idea that people on the West Ront drive unlike those on say, Oxford Road.

So motorbike fuckwit cuts me off, so there's a whole lot of hooting going on behind me.

Pulls up to me at an intersection:
“Wind down your window bitch”
Peas: OK, fuckwanker. What's your problem?
Fuckwanker: You hooted at me.
Peas: I did no such thing, the car behind me hooted at you, you deaf idiot.
[Now I'm already angry. But itchy angry, like the only thing that'll make me less angry is if I rearrange his face through the medium of a clenched fist. Sweating like a necrophiliac in a morgue]
Fuckwanker: You made the other car hoot at me!
Peas: WHAT THE FUCK? I made the other car hoot at you? Like, I am transpiring through mental fucking telepathy with that driver saying he should hoot at you? Are you retarded, or did you have too much crystal meth last night?
Fuckwanker: You made me cut you off.
Peas: I made you cut me off? Listen here. And listen carefully.
[Leaning in close] I am an angry woman at the moment. In fact, I probably shouldn't be driving around in public. I will punch you. There will be a problem here if you take me on. Because I will FUCK YOU UP, YOU HEAR ME?? I don't care who the hell you are, whether you live in Florida Hills and married your second cousin – I will smash your face, using adrenaline alone.
Fuckwanker: OK. Calm down. Sorry. Goodbye, have a nice day.

I went overboard. Completely overboard. Possessed by rage and irrationality of an unprecedented scale, I drove away leaving him to eat my dust. Luckily for him, not my knuckle sandwich.

On telling my father about the incident, he came back with:
“Peas, I keep a rifle in my car these days. In fact, I carry it around with me everywhere. Just yesterday, a taxi was pumping loud music a little too close to my balcony, so I popped a bullet into it's roof.”

He wasn't even driving. My father owns a gun, shot at a taxi from close range, just to shut it the fuck up.

Not for the first time, I'm worried. He owns a gun. And is shooting the roofs of stationary vehicles. Off his balcony.

In other news, the horniness persists like a rash borne unto me in the desert. He Who Has The Same Name As My Domestic Rodent, also now known as Foxy Forearms – and I, have been in like, a little bit of contact, like a lot.

The great thing is that I've told him straight what I'm about, and he's done the same. Me to him: Trust issues. Eccentric. People say to me “You're crazy” a lot. Sing karaoke in my lounge alone, impulsive and weird. If you're looking for a quiet little princess who does everything you say, you've got the wrong girl.
And yet, he seems unperturbed by this unbecoming information. Thus far.
He said he "can't put his finger on me," which is odd, since I'm a very open book. Perhaps the most open book on the fudging planet.

He's joining me at a party this long weekend. Poor guy – it's me and my crazy mates. I get to see those pectorals again, and maybe I'll just rip his shirt off, after a couple of tequilas.

I've also joined a Joburg French Society – much like the Ant's Italian Society. It's super français – the okes email me in only French, and expect I write back in their le langue. English eez not permeeted at all. Fantastique.