Two Fridays ago…well, not yesterday, but the Friday before Friday before yesterday…I was in an accident. Some dipshit wasn’t paying attention, cut over to my lane and plowed me right into the guardrail. There are so many fucked up things about this whole situation:
- When I saw the driver about to hit me, I started cutting into the breakdown lane, but he was having none of that, he just kept coming anyway, into the damn breakdown lane with me.
- Dude didn’t even slow down or apply his breaks as he was pushing me into the rail. I know this because I could see his taillights seeing how they were like 3 feet away from me.
- The guy was clearly fucking lost, and clearly fucking distracted with something (more on that in a moment).
- Dicksuck admitted to the police on the scene that he was in fact at fault. Until he changed his story.
- My Escape, my beautiful, innocent, always-good-to-me Escape, is totaled.
You can figure out what happened by 1. and 2. But if you didn’t, long story short, I was taking an exit ramp that has two lanes. I was in the left, he was in the right. He got over to the left to (what I figured) enter the highway. I got over to the right. No big deal. Until he decided to get back in the right lane WHEN I WAS ALMOST PARALLEL WITH HIM. Me moving to the breakdown lane did nothing, because the stupid fuck kept on coming over. So in addition to the driver’s side quarter panel being fucked (pictures below), there is a lovely scrape on the passenger side from the guardrail. (Irrelevant of course because of 5.)
When the cop arrived, he asked me first what happened. I told him pretty much what I just wrote up there, but a little longer. He walked about 100 – 150 yards to where the idiot cause of this whole thing was and asked him what happened. The cop then went back to his car, filled out the report, and came back to me with my driver’s license and registration.
“Here you go, sir,” he said, handing it back to me.
“Did he corroborate my story?” I asked the officer, immediately regretting using ‘corroborate’ because that just seems like I was making something up.
“Yes sir. He will be listed at fault for the accident.”
Good, I thought. At least I didn’t have to worry about fighting that. Until Monday when my insurance company called and informed me that the douche changed his tune and was now saying I rear-ended him. The fuck?
Rather than go into every detail, both my insurance rep and his insurance rep thought that his claim was ridiculous. While his insurance rep didn’t out and out say it — he’s in a position after all — I could here the smile in his voice as I openly mocked the dick who hit me.
But, it gets better. My insurance agent told me that not only did it go down as not my fault because of all the evidence I had, they are also going to get my deductible back when it’s determined it’s his fault and I’m probably going to get my lost work wages too.
Also, as a bonus, today I went and picked up the police report. Not only was the shitstain charged at fault for the accident; not only was dickface issued a ticket for the accident; but it’s also noted in the report that the asshole was distracted by the GPS when the accident happened.
Yeah, you piece of fucking shit. Good luck on not being found at fault here. Cunt.
On the bright side, I got double what I expected the value to be for my Escape, and I got a brand new one with better (and more) options than my baby, and the payments are slightly less than what I was paying. Yes, I absolutely would prefer not to have payments, and I was SO looking forward to being payment free, but I’m in a fortunate position where this won’t hurt me financially. It just really sucks.
“Don’t worry, no one will ever hurt you again,” was what I whispered to my truck after I cleaned it out for the last time. I’m going to fucking miss that SUV.