I checked my mirrors, noted that you were a good distance behind me and moving at my speed, and flicked my
turn signal on. I waited a couple blinks, as I always do, to be sure that you had noted my intentions. I gracefully switched lanes...
...and your pickup's dirty nose was half up my sweet little Corolla's tailpipe.
Why did you think that speeding up when you knew that I was about to plant myself in front of you was a good idea? I know that turn signals are a rarely-used novelty here in the dirty south, but that doesn't mean that they should be blatantly disregarded. They are there for a reason.
The thing that angered me most was that you proceeded to tailgate me for the next four miles, shaking your fists and mouthing obsceneties at me. If you're going to get riled up with road rage, please do it over someone who has actually committed a major traffic faux pas. Don't endanger me because you weren't being perceptive.
I'm very sorry if you feel that my dainty little high-heeled feet were tap dancing all over your big, strong, testosterone-inflated ego. You are not the king of the road. You are not Jeff Gordon. People will pass you, and you wil not always be at the head of traffic. Sometimes, even (gasp!) women will drive faster than you, and sometimes they will be in front of you. Big strong men can deal with this, because they are big strong men.
Where does that leave you?
I laughed and blew you a kiss as I turned into Off Broadway Shoes, then scraped imaginary ego off my shoes and hopped out to hunt for a new pair of strappy little sandals.