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immediately afterwards. so much for having the right-of-way. and the guy who hit me’s main concern? was i going to call the cops. no, actually, i’m not but only because it takes them, on average, 30 minutes to arrive at a shooting and i don’t really wanna sit in the heat, in the Quarter, for an indefinite amount of time, waiting for New Orleans’ finest to *maybe* show up. and 5 days later i have a ginormous quad-colored bruise up and down my leg that keeps changing colors like one of those weird 70s flower lamps. strangely, my bike was OK, despite skidding across the intersection of Conti and Royal.
and now i have this nice, robust fear that if some dumbass could hit me from a dead stop at a stop sign, when i’m right in freaking front of him, 6 inches from his bumper, at 11-ish on a Saturday morning then perhaps all those people who fly by me all the time or roll through red lights=a me-pancake waiting to happen.
my bike. and her friend Rhoda.
