Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves. For horror. For excitement. For a spine-tingling journey straight through the heart of hell, where all it takes is one mistake, one misstep, or one unhinged motorist barreling toward the Taco Bell drive-thru to send me hurtling into the abyss, never to be seen again!
Prepare yourselves for my next death-defying stunt, where I will walk across… THIS CROSSWALK.
Someone help up that man who just fainted.
I want all present here today to witness the extraordinary agility and superhuman composure it takes to walk the crosswalk with your body and sanity intact.
A grave task indeed, my adoring fans. For this crosswalk is not a well-maintained footpath in the suburbs. No. This is a crumbling concrete gangway surrounded by fiery metal death convoys, where my survival hinges entirely on some lights and a small yellow sign partially hidden by a tree branch.
I did not expect so many of you to be vomiting already. Get a hold of yourselves. You are about to witness a grand spectacle!
Swarms of faceless steel killing machines will turn right in front of me at break-neck speeds to avoid waiting two more seconds. Roaring pickup trucks the size of circus elephants will stop just inches from me, then violently accelerate the moment I walk past. Psychological torments the likes of which you can’t imagine will gnaw away at my faith in humanity—the honking, the jeering, the sickening entitlement infecting the air like a noxious gas. All while a mocking orange hand counts down the wildly inadequate number of seconds I have to get out of the way before a stampede of luxury sedans can surge forward and legally pancake me in the street!
Stop this senseless weeping, dear spectators. I live for danger!
In fact, if I survive this crosswalk, I will take on an even more treacherous one just a block away—a crosswalk at a four-way stop with no speed bumps or traffic enforcement in sight, where hundreds of unruly manchildren in Audis are free to careen right through without the faintest attempt to slow down, look, or brake. Huzzah!
Scream all you want. But do not shield your eyes as I brave drivers so hell-bent on speeding home, so coddled by our car-centric culture, that one may very well leap out of their freshly scented, air-conditioned murder weapon and beat me with their fists because my existence held them up for a moment.
Pray that I last the day, ladies and gentlemen. Pray that I am lucky enough to merely get clipped by a maniac on a Lime scooter, or have my toes run over by a malfunctioning Tesla. For there are still thousands of crosswalks, bike lanes, and Target parking lots for a reckless thrill seeker like me to conquer!