I drove home one day and saw a dead raccoon on the side of the road. It's little paws were thrust towards the sky comically. "How could you?!" he seemed to say. Nothing too special about a dead animal on the road, not with the heavy commuter traffic where I live, so I drove home and had an evening cup of coffee. Maybe I watched Breaking Bad. Doesn't matter.
The next day, coming home from work, and he is still there, paws still sticking up, legs splayed out, head back, mouth agape. I glance at it with a grimace. Will someone please come and pick this fucking thing up?
Third day, it is still there, baking in the afternoon sun. You've gotta be shittin' me. I should call the city.
Fourth day, there's a big thunderstorm. Some guy nearly T-bones me at the intersection near my house. People in this city have a rough time when the weather turns sour. I'm a little shaken up, cursing to myself in the car. Private road rage in the privacy of my vehicle. I don't think about the raccoon as I lay down to sleep that night.
Krash17's mental health secrets:
Drink more water, sleep well, and if you want friends, be a friend.
