Posthuman Blues

I went to Starbucks tonight, where I finished Strieber's "The Grays." Later, in the parking lot, a teenager informed me that he'd watched someone key and ram my car, apparently under the impression that I'd infringed on his parking territory. The account was enraging; I tend to avoid nice people, let alone indulge morons in vehicular turf-wars.

I scoped out the damage, which seems confined to a couple scrapes on the hood. I stopped by a gas station on the way home and checked the tires, which look OK. At least, no obvious punctures.

I hate the fucking suburbs.