Snap.

I take myself as a patient bloke. I mean, as a taxi driver and poker player, I'd have to be. Most people don't have to swallow the kind of shit I see in one taxi shift during their whole lives. That, added to a lifetime of fighting with elders, gives you a somewhat unique perspective on patience.

But I have my moments. And I usually wreak major collateral damage when I do.

Here I had this deal cooked up, where I'd have the car for the weekend in exchange for a ride there and back. I mean sure, sounds like a fair deal. Then of course, the following evening, I was at the helm. With, amongst others, the captain sitting in the cabin. The captain drinking with me driving. I'd seen it before, and the possible results gave me shivers.

The plan was to play poker at the angry bloke from Pikebay and then move on to another party. Poker was cool, although the guys were playing at penny stakes, so I didn't really have it in me to take things seriously. The guys then continued on to Lost and Found, supposedly to find a woman for the night. Dunno what came of that. People were surprised at my decision not to steer towards Hell sinki, and even more surprised when the regular "what, dontcha want pussy" rants didn't change my mind. I wanted to go talk bullshit with Mikkeli-Mike. Haddock, quite saturated with Viru Valge at this point, decided to come with me.

Although he repeatedly told me it'd be ok for him to come along, I should've known at this stage to drop him off at the captains' lounge. But no, being the sympathetic humble type of guy, I didn't want him to miss the party. My sanity was really taken to the test, with Haddock shouting about free parking spots in one ear and the Ladybird on the phone for the third time, reminding me to be at the harbour the following morning, while at the same time gruesomely haunted by this nasty image of what might be, if Haddock threw a scene at the party. So I was a bit, for lack of a better word, tense, at that precise moment.

As you might have guessed, the plot thickened, up to where I was the one who brought this half wasted hairy man talking dirty to guests. The hostess asked me to do something about it. As if he was my responsibility. But since no one else was doing anything and I was half responsible for a scuffle almost starting between Haddock and the host, I made my move. After a bit (now I say a bit, when I'm actually crowbaring the guy) of coaxing, I got the captain home. No thank you, no nothing. I suddenly realized what the guy from Falling Down felt like in the morning traffic. It was as if this huge rubber band was tightened to its limit of elasticity and reach its point of critical mass.

Mr. Sarasvuo has said that your own thoughts are poison. You should not listen to your own thoughts and only fill your head with other peoples' empirically proven to be wise thoughts. At that point, my thoughts told me that I'm a worthless, untrustworthy doormat. The type you don't actually care about until you need a ride. Snap.

I must've hit something like 160 kph on that highway.

Thank goodness I had the party to go back to. Could've resulted in something nasty if I'd stayed on that road. Not a crash or anything, I'm not stupid. But a speeding ticket in the least. I kind of opened up to Mikkeli-Mike about my thoughts that night. Too bad he also had a rant going, about women. That conversation skewed the focus of my anger and frustration onto someone not entirely responsible: the little woman who had repeatedly tried to verify that I'd keep my promise of picking her up the following morning.

Indeed, I'm still trying to divulge this idea of me not being perfect.