So I'm crossing I-95 last night - I hear this faint music coming - it sounds like Hank Williams Jr. - and it gets louder and louder and my poor little legs are moving faster and faster as it gets louder.
Sure enough, a redneck fucker in a 2003 Red F-150 blasting Hank Jr. damn-near kills me. I could feel the front left tire on my fur that's how close he was.
I'm tired of this stinking fucking possum life. It sucks. Is it my fault I travel and LIVE at night? No - it's not.
Sometimes when crossing I-95, it's crossed my mind to just STOP
And SIT...
And WAIT...
And DIE under the wheels of a vehicle.
Why not? What the fuck do I have to live for? Almost every family member I've ever had has been brutally slain on a road - every morning there's new death - I've lost cousins, uncles, I've lost brothers, sisters - every time I meet a nice piece of possum-tail she gets killed - I'm lucky to get my little possum tool out of 'em before they're killed.
Why haven't *I* been killed!? Why did the redneck F-150 not kill me last night? There's more possums dead I think than living - what's different about ME!?
My cousin's neighbor says it's because I'm "special" - that I can write - that I can blog - and that I'm supposed to live - to tell the story - I'm the "spokespossum" for all possums is what he says.
Okay here - since I'm a spokespossum - let's report on last night's fun - this is ALL on I-95 - I'm not even looking at other highways (I call them "dieways"):

RIP:
Louis Carson
Jack AND HIS SISTER Thelma Peterson
Paul Kristensen
Linda and Leslie Tuborg

What's this life shit anyway? Did I ASK to be born? Is life a "gift" of some sort - fuck no - it's a joke. It's one disappointment after another - topped off with death and destruction. Fuck life - I may just stop in I-95 tonight if I even bother crossing it. Life sucks. You suck.