You were in front of me at the checkout line at the Target in La Habra. I bumped into your arm while reaching for a pack of gum, and I quickly apologized. As I moved up to pay the cashier, you subtly yet intentionally rammed your shopping cart into me as an act of revenge for my accidental contact with you just moments before. I was alone in my car, waiting on a red light at an intersection in Huntington Beach, when I noticed you seated in your high truck. You kept breaking your neck to look back at me to give me a mean glare—for what? I'm still not sure. You drove off as the light turned green. Twenty minutes later, at a different intersection in the city, I was stared down by a woman in the car beside mine. What's up with HB-ers mean mugging everybody?
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