I almost knocked that nun clean off her bicycle. If I'd hit her, her old pudding body would've splashed out of her habit. Her holy vessel would've sprung a leak. Or two. Hell, she'd smear across all three lanes. It didn't happen, though. So I get to laugh. What's black, white, red, and silent?

What was she thinking? Everybody knows it's dumb to ride a bicycle on the main streets during rush hour. She took the idiot concept to a higher level. That old leathercrotch took her ten speed out on the highway. The highway! She shot across three lanes of screaming semi trailers to the concrete median. I didn't see anybody in the breakdown lane, and even if somebody did need help, what could she offer? Nothing. There's no way that old crone could change a tire without osteoporosis reducing her bones to rubberbands the first time she tried to crank the jack.

She's religious and old. Possibly senile. Something set her off. Broke her mind, snapped her sanity. Had to. It's certainly no stretch of logic to imagine she was kneeling, praying to one sideshow Saint or another when she was suddenly visited by a holy presence. It could be that Lucifer himself appeared in a cloud of red smoke and ejaculated blood all over her favorite stained glass depiction of the three wise men. I know I'd soil my diapers if that happened to me.

It could've affected her fragile psyche. What if he touched her there? That could've been the trigger. I was driving too fast to see if she was screaming, laughing, or riding with her eyes squeezed shut. I thought nuns weren't supposed to commit suicide. Right? Maybe she quit.

Maybe it was something nicer, something sweet. Even God. If he gave her The Sight, maybe she could see invisible things. Maybe the highway is full of lost children, choking their soft children's coughs with each whistle of gasoline exhaust that scrapes down their young throats to stain their pink lungs. Maybe they're already dead, accident victims, lost wandering souls, and she wants to lead them to Jesus. What better way to meet car crash ghosts than to get pureed by the front grill of my crappy Detroit four door?

I don't care why she did that. Don't care what caused her problem. I still have payments on this thing. I can't afford to have my insurance premium rise. I hope somebody else mangles her. On a motorcycle. That would be cool.

I'm not going to let this strange experience bother me. It's daytime, and my headlights are off. 5:37 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm