I hate trishaws, motorcycles and buses, in that order. Cars are another category, broken down into tinted double cabs, vans, old people, and learners – again in order. These are concentric circles of hate and my most malicious behavior is on the road. It’s a rough environment and it’s amazing the dehumanizing influence or hours of abuse (from other drivers). It’s a self-perpetuating cycle, drafting the meek and making them into gleeful practitioners of asshole. When I started driving I was considerate and attentive to both law and human decency. Now I almost relish the struggle and draw some pale vestige of justice from cutting off the wicked and stopping at pedestrian X-ings. Small recompense though, for an experience tainted by malice.
The first place of malice is a tough one. I take trishaws, or took anyways. When I’m in a three I don’t min the lane creep and creation so much, but it’s infuriating as a driver. Not because these things are wrong, indeed, they are adaptive. Trishaws are just so damn slow. They gurgle on hills and meander between lanes. They observe no concept of a fast lane and I hate passing on the potholed left. For this reason – their inept lawlessness, I despise trishaws the most. More for the inept than the lawless.
I feel justified in cutting off trishaws, obstructing them even – taking pleasure in their furious bobbing in the rear view mirror. They are like green, red and blue cockroaches in the road, always one more no matter how many you pass.
Motorcycle use far surpasses car ownerships in SL, though they don’t appear dominant. My problem again is that they combine lawlessness with sloth. They will sidle into every gap at an intersection, pass between you and the curb – and do nothing with their ill-gotten gains. They are poor theives, quick enough to grab but not quick enough to avoid a slap.
Worse, they often come laden with an entire genetic bundle, mixing guilt with otherwise uncut malice. It is difficult to cut off a bike with a baby’s leges poking out, but it still feels good. I feel bad for feeling good, and that’s bad. Motorcyles are like ants. Annoying, but still feels bit sin to crush them.
Then the behemoths, Soviet era hulls emblazoned with children’s names and improbable landscapes. They are menacing, belligerent and alternate frentic speed with frequent stops. Despite being the only creature that can kill me, I do honor their predictability. Buses are always crazy, but their crazy has structure. Basically, a bus will always fuck you over, and you can plan behavior around that.
For that reason I don’t hate as much as accept the cutting off, the stopping, the deafening horning. Accept like I accept a force of nature. Pain without intent just doesn’t give rise to much malice.
This was written for a writing workshop last Sunday, by hand on, whatsit, paper