I admit it. I have a problem. I’m out of control. I endanger the lives of more than one person every day. On exciting days, I may even endanger several people. There’s no easy way for me to say this. I have a serious case of road rage.

This isn’t a joke, people. It’s a serious mental issue. I only weigh 100 pounds, and, no matter how much I wish that I were Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I never gain supernatural strength or human strength or insect strength.

Instead of going to the gym, I use my car to bully unsuspecting motorists.

I blame this on everyone but myself. It’s my parents’ fault for buying me a fast car. It’s Loyola’s fault for stressing me out and forcing me to channel my anger into desperate lane changing. It’s my boyfriend’s fault for encouraging me to continue my campaign of highway “shock and awe,” or as he calls it, “Commuter Darwinism.” But most of all, it’s your fault. You’re all asking for it.

I can’t help bemoaning the state of the human race when I’m driving behind someone who’s not only driving, but also eating sushi, planning world domination, slapping children and trying to apply eyeliner.

I haven’t figured out the cause of terrible driving. Most people would rationalize it by claiming ignorance, fear or apathy – you know, the usual excuses.

But I think there’s a conspiracy. I think everyone on the road is plotting to block my way home.

As soon as my little red car pulls into traffic, every 87-year-old in the state decides to drive to the grocery store. Every moron who can shatter windows with their music decides to go for a joy ride. Every 15-year-old beginner decides to drive to school.

I grip the steering wheel, play classic or alternative rock as loud as I can handle and start to wreak havoc by glaring and shaking an old-man fist at everyone.

The soccer moms are the worst. When I’m driving on a two-lane road at 11 p.m., I expect the left lane to be clear for me to go as fast as I want. What I don’t expect is a Lincoln Navigator and a Ford Explorer to team up against me and block the lanes so I have to go 10 miles per hour under the speed limit the entire way home.

Meanwhile, in this hypothetical situation, nine-year-olds are sticking out their tongues and blowing boogers at my car. In response to this, I do what any mature adult would do: I tailgate them, weaving from side to side until one vehicle brakes, paralyzed in fear.

Then I scream, “You like that, don’t you? There will be a reckoning!” several times to no one in particular because my windows are up.

I suppose this could be my problem. Maybe motorists shouldn’t be expected to use blinkers, turn on headlights at night, pass on the left, or even drive the speed limit. Perhaps it’s too much to ask for a little courtesy on the road. My judgment could be clouded by my fast, demanding American lifestyle, my quest for unnatural strength and my lack of compassion.

Nah. It’s still your fault.