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So I'm really good at crossing the street.
I always have been; it's a skill I picked up at about the age of 8.

I grew up on a road. Not a street, or place, or crescent, or whatnot, but a road. Like Spring Garden or Quinpool. Except, unlike those examples, my road was not full of businessess. It was a main road to take to get to Lawrencetown. I played with most of the other kids on the road. We built forts in the woods to look at porn, and climbed trees, slid down a local hill in the winter, played in the ditch and threw rocks at cars. You know, normal kid stuff. This road was fairly busy and always had dead and injured cats on the side of it. Until I was 8, I only used crosswalks. But it got really time consuming, as there weren't very many crosswalks on the road and my runnings around required me to cross frequently.

Then one day, my best childhood friend, Brian (not the Ling), taught me how to really cross the street. I learned how to look at a car, judge its distance and casually saunter across the street as if it were nothing. Now, I can judge rules of the road, and when traffic lights are going to turn, and when it is safe to cross even if the light is red.

Now I have the fear. I narrowly escaped getting hit in the knee on Tuesday. Someone was in a hurry to turn into traffic. He looked to his left and saw a van turn. His chance to go. So, he stepped on the gas. Thing is, I was coming from the right. He didn't see me. I was right in front of his car. I skipped to my right, slipped, caught myself with my left hand-smashing into the hood of his car. Shocked, I gave him the filthiest look I could conjure. He drove away.

My wrist is still very much in pain. I've taken a bunch of pills today.

Ow...