I was riding in a car with a friend of mine, and we passed by a guy on the side of the road changing his tire, and it’s rush hour, 5 pm on a Friday, and it’s August, 900 degrees and the smell of exhaust and the noise of horns, people laughing and giving him the finger.
And my friend was like, “Man, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
And I thought, well, me neither.
Because, really, what a pussy thing to wish on your worst enemy, you know? ‘You are the person I hate most in the world, and man, I really hope you sweat a little, and are 15 minutes late to something.’
That’s a bullshit little nothing. You don’t wish a fucking flat tire on your worst enemy. You wish sentient fire-breathing zombie herpes on your worst enemy. You wish getting colon-pregnant with a litter of restless spiky-skinned ass-babies on your worst enemy. You wish a tiny, angry little personal black cloud that never goes away, and rains piss, acid and razor blades on your worst enemy.
A flat tire … sometimes I wish that on myself, when it’s a workday and I’m passing a bar.