was that I was riding my bike back from Poison Girl (a ride of, at most, five minutes, most of it down a main street — Westheimer) and some guys in a red car threw something at me. A drink from a fast food place? Water balloon? It slid off me (even though a pretty much direct hit on my back) and exploded on the ground. The guys yelled something then sped off in their red car.
This made me angry. I followed them for a bit — not that I could catch them on my bike, and, really, following is a misnomer since they were going my way anyway. When they turned off I considered following but
1. I probably wouldn’t catch them.
2. There were three or four of them in the car.
3. Getting into a fight might just result in my getting arrested. And then there’s
4. When I become angry, it’s somewhat of a suicidal rage, where I want to do everything in my power to hurt the other person(s) without regards for my own safety.
I thought again of confronting them when I noticed they had turned parallel to me on a side street, and then were coming down to Westheimer again. I also considered getting off the road and far enough away they wouldn’t be able to throw at me again. And I also considered turning down the road they were coming up, picking up my bike, and hurling it at their car (see number 4, above).
Instead, I kept riding home (now less than a minute away), and they threw something else at me. The thing clipped me and they sped off into the night, laughing.
Strangely, by that point, I was not angry so much as sad. Why is it that anyone would think this is fun?
And, unfortunately, I have an answer. Assuming the guys in the car were teenagers, then it might have to do with power, realizing, after all this time as a child, that you (they) have the power to destroy (I had friends who took baseball bats to mailboxes while driving through neighborhoods) and therefore to assert your (their) importance in the world.
To me, it’s a sign of sickness.