There's a Special Place in Hell, Right Next to the People who Forget to Sand Popsicle Sticks

This is an open letter to all those who sit at a red light and plan to go straight in the right lane. When there is a lane just to the left that is strictly for those people going straight through the light. Yeah, you know who you are, Soccer Mom with the 47 kids in the back who doesn't notice when the light turns green.

You drive slowly up to the light and change lanes into the right lane. Giving me hope that you are actually going to turn. And yet, as I pull up to the light, and anticipate throwing on my blinker and feeling that joy as I realize I don't have to stop, that I will get home marginally faster, that I might actually make it home in under 30 minutes... you stop. Full braking. Red lights, reflecting my rage. Taunting me. And you sit. And sit. And never turn.

I roll up closer and closer hoping that seeing my smiling (screaming, whatever) face in your rearview mirror might encourage you to freaking turn. But you don't. When the light FINALLY turns green, you continue sitting. Opening juice packets, wiping noses, and dunking chicken nuggets. And subliminally teaching the next generation that this is how to handle a red light.

Once you finally get your written invitation to go through the light (and by written invitation, I mean you hear me honking my horn at you in the jaunty melody of "Jingle Bells"), you look up, slowly raise your foot from the brake and reintroduce it to something I like to call the GAS PEDAL! And go. And I scrape by, cursing you and condemning you to an eternal life full of Bankruptcy codes, splintery tongues, and DMV lines. Because that's what Hell is like.