If you see me hoofing down the byways with my thumb in the air, please be a pal and offer me a lift. And don't play that whole "stop and then drive up a little so I chase you and then drive up a little more" game. I'm on to you, hillbilly.

Yes, I am temporarily vehicle-free since some weiner in his weinermobile ran through a red light and smashed my rear passenger side, sending me spinning like an extra from Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift.

Don't worry, worry warts. I'm a-ok. Luckily, no one was hurt. There was some physical damage to both cars and now I'll be suffering from severe migraines brought about by dealing with auto insurance companies for the next several weeks. But all in all, I was pretty lucky.

However, I learned a lot about myself during this little mishap. Once my car stopped spinning, I immediately got out of my car and waved to the concerned bystanders, saying "Don't worry. I'm all right." Then, I went over to the other car to make sure that no one was hurt. The other guy was clearly upset and took full responsibility for the accident.

And here's where my psychosis kicks in. Upon seeing how upset and guilty he feels, I start comforting the guy. The guy that just rammed into me and spun me around like a top. I start saying things like "Don't worry - accidents happen." I should have slapped a figure four leglock on him and instead I'm wrapping him up in an empathy blanket and figuratively massaging his doodacky.

What the hell is wrong with me? Besides the fact that I use the word "doodacky"?