F*%$ you, Atilla The Hun!

It's a damn good thing exercising releases endorphins (the happy chemical), otherwise, I would have keyed some poor bastard's car today.
Walking out of the gym is a great feeling. Tiredness, accomplishment, sore glutes, the whole shebang. The feeling, however, is somehow impacted when, as you are dreaming of the water bottle in the cup holder of your console, you find, as you approach your compact Civic, that it will be a near impossible feat to get into your own vehicle. You are also kicking yourself that you hadn't gone for the model with a sunroof... the reason for this is that some Jerk-off, low-life, good-for-nothing, hyphen-inducing-son-of-a-bitch has parked on your car's left side. Excuse me, not parked; invaded. You see that their dusty maroon truck is a little too close for comfort. You actually feel bad for your tiny Civic, in your head you imagine your Civic to be a young teenage girl and the maroon monster is a Stanley Tucci like pedophile whose side mirrors are TOUCHING your poor little baby's side mirrors! Whispering dirty dirty things into her innocent ears. [Side mirrors are the ears of the car, in case you were wondering]. You are baffled at how the buffoon owner of the creepy truck could have misjudged his width so drastically. You weren't even parked in a compact spot! And you had parked right in the middle, because you're a damn good parker. And he still managed to get inhumanely close to your ride. You see this predicament. You see, with your eyes that there is only a few inches between his passenger door and your driver's side entrance. You see this, and yet, you still try to get in! Even though you have to bend your wrist in a strange manner to insert your key to unlock the door, you still try to open it. Maybe you were thinking that you worked off billions of calories at the gym, and in actuality, you are now only 65 pounds and can fit easily through cracked windows, cat flaps, and your own fucking car. But alas; you pull the door open and it barely moves an inch before it collides with the maroon charlatan (which you reenact several times, because you just love the sound of it) and closes shut of it's own accord as if to say, "um, yeah... right. Why don't you try the passenger door?" and you say, "But I don't want to try the passenger door! I don't want to find a solution for my problem! I want to bitch and moan for a minute... gawd!" So that's precisely what you do. You stomp your feet and look at the ground; which doesn't help at all, it only gets you angrier because you see the white parking lines that now strangely resemble the great wall of China to you. (Partly, because you are good about thinking in metaphors. And partly due to blind rage induced delusion). The Great Wall, you were safely inside the lines and then fucking Atilla The Hun swerved in, taking up all of his dynasty and a good chunk of yours! And momentarily you consider keying the shit out of his shitty car, but then you feel the dopamine in your veins, and the rage is lessened. So you resign, not wanting to deal with getting maroon paint shavings on your sweaty work out gear. You, instead go to your passenger seat, you sit down, take out a napkin and a pen and write, "Dear Dipshit, next time would you be so kind as to leave a can opener, so I can actually enter my fucking vehicle? That'd be much appreciated. Fuck you very much. Love, the car to your right." You then put the scribbled napkin under the windshield wiper, navigate you way to the correct seat, drive away, and vaguely hope for the rain to hold until they read it. It was, after all, a very nice note. And it'd be a shame if it got illegible.