Driving
Left lane campers, no-signal merges, and rolling roadblocks. The painfully specific little habits, outfit checks, soft launches, and social crimes people clock immediately.
One hand on the wheel, one hand on the wand, zero interest in your survival.
This fucking gal is doing her makeup at freeway speed like the shoulder is her glam team.
Traffic is moving and she is using the rearview mirror like a vanity light, drifting half a lane at a time while everyone around her becomes unpaid stunt support.
A little palm-up apology apparently covers three lanes of chaos.
This fucking gal thinks a courtesy wave is the same thing as a turn signal.
She slices across traffic with zero signal, then throws up a tiny thank-you wave like the rest of us should feel honored to have participated in her merge.
She did not merge into traffic so much as consider it from a distance.
This fucking gal reaches the end of the on-ramp and decides speed is more of a suggestion.
The ramp gives her half a mile to get up to speed and she still joins freeway traffic like she is easing into brunch parking at 9 a.m.
Your retinas did not consent to this spotlight.
This fucking gal has headlights bright enough to interrogate the moon.
Her lights are somehow above your trunk line, inside your mirrors, and directly in your bloodstream, but she still drives around like everyone else is overreacting.
Driving pages work best when the offending move is obvious in one sentence and specific enough that a stranger can picture the whole scene immediately.