I can predict the future. And with alarming accuracy. My own, at least. This is how it will go down:
After a lifetime of dodging bullets – literally and figuratively – which includes thousands of miles acting as a unbelted navigator to a perpetually inebriated driver until age 8, major head trauma on three separate occasions before my 12th birthday, a romantic tryst on the edge of a bluff overlooking the Pacific as the ground gave way beneath, staring down the barrel of a bi-polar hunting companion’s 30.06, and dozens of other dramatic near misses – at some point in the future, I will find myself idling at a stop light, reflecting on my luck, good fortune, and a life well-lived, and the light will turn green. And I will forget to look left.