At this point I realized I’d either developed some James Cameron super 3D floaters, or I was about to have my own Chris Farley in Tommy Boy moment.

It buzzed back in my vision and hit me in the cheek. I shrieked and took both hands off the wheel to swat at my attacker. It landed on my left boob, which led to more screaming, and the second I looked back up, a high-pitched skid as I slammed on the brakes and missed the bumper of the car in front of me by a millimeter.

Freaking out that nature’s winged beast was now affixed to my chestal region and apparently attempting to breast feed, I pulled a hard right into a parking lot, nearly flattening an old lady leaving Grower’s Direct. I glanced back down and yelped, “What are you doing, bug? I’m not freaking lactating. Get…,” I plucked at the fabric around it, trying to trampoline fling it at the windshield, “Off!”

I thrust the car door opened and flew out, jumping up down whilst flicking at my teet. I hopped about squealing Beaker meeps that happened to create a nice harmony over The Pointer Sister’s “I’m so Excited” blaring from my open vehicle and adding to my embarrassment.

Finally the mutant surrendered its calling as the world’s smallest breast pump and spread its wings to fly toward some other unsuspecting driver. At the moment I noticed the red and black pattern.

Sweet Jesus, I thought. I almost crashed my car, hit an old lady, and gave myself a public breast exam over a ladybug.

But in my defense, they really are creepy little insects, especially when they’re trying to milk you. It was definitely not baby sized so there’s just no excuse. It was large, which begs the question: Was it a lesbian ladybug? Obviously so.

I’m telling you, do not let the name fool you. Do you think it’d be any less to disturbing to be driving along in your car only to have a gentleman worm drop down on your lap?

You think you’d just keep cruising down the highway in your Camero, your skullet blowing in the open T top’s wind, acting like you don’t care that an episode of Fear Factor is taking place on your cod piece? No, you’d probably crash because only the name and not the reality of the sick creature is a euphemism.

Your crotch diving gentleman worm would not be sporting a little bow tie under his slimy neck any more than my ladybug donned a bonnet. It was not a lady. It was a bug. And it attacked me.

So stop trying to make me feel like a freak for calling this ladybug what she really is and that is Anxiety Activator number forty-seven.

So, I sat upstairs in my unemployment office typing some e-mails to Cherd early this morning when I heard a man, who sounded possessed by either PCP or the devil, screaming and throwing things outside on the street. His comments included, but were not limited to, “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! I’m gonna f*ing kill you! I’m gonna kill you!!!!” ad nauseum.

I’m used to hearing this sort of thing, what with our street serving as a long exit way from the local bar and liquor stores (and crack dealing alley?) across the street. But this man sounded more out of control than anything I’ve ever heard. And then the car alarms did. And then the patio furniture did.

Soon he attacked the front door and wall of the house directly across from ours with so much force and verbal rage that I thought he was assaulting our walls. Raul shot out of bed and peered through our blinds. That’s when he saw a man trying to kick in the front door while still threatening to kill someone.

A woman screamed she was going to call the police and a second later Raul witnessed the door open. He saw the man push the woman so hard she flew backwards across the room and landed on the tile floor hitting her head. The man turned and slowly walked to shut the door behind him in a manner Raul later described as “f*ing creepy as hell.” That happened within about one second because as soon as he threw her down and started attacking her, Raul ran and got dressed and took off across the street as I called the cops and/or Steven Seagal. By then it was 12:54 a.m.

At this point the woman shrieked bloody womanslaughter, “Somebody help me! Oh my God! Please help me!” over and over. The sounds of furniture and various objects hitting walls and breaking as she cried and screamed echoed through our street. I’ve never heard a person sound so terrified in my life and it made my blood turn cliche to listen to her. Clad in my insomni clothes, I shivered in the middle of  the street whilst hollering at Raul to get back over to our house. He hadn’t even brought his machete with him.

R beat on their door three times, trying to distract the guy and get him to stop beating her. On the third punch to the front door, it swung open. The guy turned around and slowly strolled toward mi amore Raul. Just then the cops skidded up and surrounded the house. My life mate sprinted back across the street and the five o tackled the other guy to the ground on the patio.

The woman was  hysterical, sobbing and screaming, saying to arrest him and that he tried to kill her. They handcuffed the guy and after questioning him on the patio for a while, tossed him in a police SUV, but the guy saw Raul and me and clearly knew we’d dropped the dime. Through the front door that stayed open during the ensuing hour-plus long investigation, you could see broken furniture everywhere. A table top lay on the floor with its stand turned upside-down beside it. The place was a disaster.

The cops snapped pictures of the scene and questioned her for nearly two hours. They kept coming over to get statements from us, but we were so shaken up we forgot to double-check that it would be anonymous — not that it matters since the lunatic has already seen us and obviously knows where we live.

At 2:30 a.m. another cop came upstairs and when I told him how scared I felt about the guy coming after us, he said my fears were unfounded. These are new neighbors that just moved in. I haven’t gotten a monocle-worthy gander at them, but the guy appeared either Persian or Hispanic (I can’t guess weights, either) and wore baggy clothes. So being the nervous dumbass I am, I assumed he was possibly a gangster who might get out of prison angrier and more probed than he’d have enjoyed and would now be ready to bust a cap in my ass. You know, a butt for a butt or some kind of street justice.

Maybe he’d bring the Crypts along, maybe the Bloods, I just didn’t know. Okay, not really. He wore neither red nor blue but gray, I think. Not sure what gang that is. When I told this to my dad he explained, “Regarding gang affiliations, I think gray is the Confederacy. They lost their turf 150 years ago and can still get a bit pissy, but as long as neither you nor Raul go out in your Daisy Dukes you’ll both be fine.” So, of course, that made me feel better because with the weather being the way it is this week, we won’t be sporting anything shorter than culottes.

The cop told me the guy is in law school and doesn’t have a criminal record and just blacked out (we think drugs not booze due to how freaky he acted when R went down there). They wanted to know if Raul had “busted in the front door vigilante style,” but the door pummeling came compliments of Mr. Meth ‘n Death. They seemed to act like the dude was semi-harmless, saying “He’s just a punk,” and that the woman would not take him back and that we’d be fine. This annoyed me because his dialogue, fists, and choking fingers seemed to belie that sentiment.

They said he didn’t live there and the woman was not “your typical abused type who’d take him back in two days and that she was clearly shaken up. She freaked out when she saw his Blackberry and didn’t even want to see his phone.” I’m not sure what kind of evidence that last tidbit counts for, but hopefully the dude will stay away. They also said there were two victims, not just the woman.

Sure enough, as I continued to pull a McGruff through the blinds whilst struggling with my breath condensation, I saw a second dude pop up out of nowhere and start drinking a beer and smoking while giving his statement to the police and inspecting the broken front door. I don’t know if the guy was knocked out cold to that point or where he was before. They finally took Sir Psycho off to jail but I’m sure he’ll get out on bail soon. (Hopefully he’s an illiterate law school student or at least one without internet access.)

Anyway, that was my morning and I’m slightly scared about how involved we got. I’m hoping the woman is okay and I was kind of mad they didn’t take her to the ER for some kind of exam or tests. The thing that I find most upsetting is this guy is only getting charged with a domestic disturbance. I don’t know if he would have ended up killing her if the cops hadn’t arrived so quickly, but it’s my opinion that their intervention shouldn’t negate an attempted murder charge. I wish more people took all violence seriously, as there are few things in the world that are more horrific. I hate euphemistic modifiers like “domestic” violence or “date” rape. Violence is violence and rape is rape; I don’t care if the asshole let you pick anything you wanted off the dollar value menu before he attacked you — it’s irrelevant. I hope this guy rots in prison.

Half convinced the Sadistic Eyelash Curler from Hell was real or one day could be, you decide to celebrate the gift that is your ability to see. In honor of your incredible luck at not having gone blind yet, you opt to enjoy the one thing that makes life almost worth living: the 1984 classic film, The Brother from Another Planet.

Oh, you’re not aware of this stunning cinematic achievement? Well, then. I guess you’re not like me after all. Allow me to introduce you to the best synopsis of all time. What follows is almost exactly what was written in the Netflix text blurb, give or take some words on account of my Xanax intake at the time I read and attempted to memorize it.

An adult humanoid slave from outer space lands on Earth and must evade bounty hunters while attempting to win over his would-be adopters with his technical wizardry. The Brother From Another Planet is a heartfelt look at race and belonging.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Sybil, why is it so important that I maintain my eye health so that I might enjoy this ’80s blockbuster?”

And to you I might say, “Why ask such obvious rhetorical questions when so many more important queries exist. Queries such as, How can I reach the Brother’s level of technical wizardry so that I, too, may one day fix a broken arcade game with the touch of my hand? What set of skills must I acquire so that I, also, could regenerate my three-toed foot after crash landing on another planet and sustaining serious injury to my walking pod region? These are the important inquiries one must focus on at the present moment.”

“I see,” you say.

“And a good thing that is, sir/madam. Because if you could not see, you would have no idea what the fuck was going on in The Brother from Another Planet. And that is because the Brother is mute. He is a bona fide anti-talker. This dude is communicating on a level Scooby Doo can’t decipher. Elephants cannot hear this man. His screams of pain and longing are in freaking capable of being perceived by the human ear.

That’s right; you better thank your lucky Russian spy satellites that you can see, because if you were blind, you’d be looking at one hour, forty-nine minutes, and twenty-seven seconds of confusion. Well, literally, you wouldn’t be looking at anything, of course, but the real bummer is you couldn’t even get a mind picture of what the hell was happening on screen. Your ability to hear any kind of plot in this film is rendered moot since the protag makes less sound than my grandma’s debarked collie.”

So, I think we’ve all learned something here today. Appreciate your most important sense (the one you ALWAYS choose to keep in a game of Would You Rather) and by God, do not waste another minute using it to gaze at anything besides the most entertaining display of technical wizardry to hit the screen since Short Circuit 2 robot rolled into town.

I must take some responsibility for deciding not to get all Tokyo Drift on your ass and instead opting to slow down and maneuver in behind you. Really, it’s my fault I spent the next five minutes of my life lurking in your exhaust fumes as I waited with growing rage for you to move forward just enough so that I could finally make my way around you and into the left turn lane.

In your defense, you were flashing some flagrant warning signs that should have alerted me to my mistake, but in my defense, I couldn’t see them until it was too late. Why does the clutserfuck-o-clues that a senior citizen home escapee is behind the wheel always have to be displayed in the backseat? My fate is sealed by the time I lay eyes on the catalog of crap nesting in the rear window.

It’s like a whole SkyMall, AARP Edition exploded in my face. What is that, an electric ear hair trimmer smashed between your World’s Best Grandma mug and a heart-shaped needlepoint craft that may as well say, “My other car is a gurney”? Damn it to hell, I do not need to think about that when I’m screaming obscenities at you!

You had it all: the box of Kleenex in case you sneeze whilst driving and suddenly acquire the Go-Go-Gadget arm superpower to reach all the way into the trunk area for an emergency snot rag, the backseat parade of Beanie Babies and other children’s toys that make me wonder if I’ve seen your license plate on an Amber Alert, and the standard lack of upper cranium where a cranium should ALWAYS appear above the driver’s side headrest of all MOVING vehicles.

I want to apologize for repeatedly slamming my forehead into my horn until you pulled over at an ever-accelerating rate, topping out at a shocking seven m.p.h. I didn’t mean to scare you, but for the love of God, there is nothing more frustrating than The Red Light Slow Roll, especially when it starts during a yellow light. Just get up there already! You do not need to leave forty-seven car lengths between your front bumper and the crosswalk. Why must you torture me?

Stop-and-go traffic is bad enough when it involves actual traffic – it is uncalled for when we are only two of eleven cars on the highway. And, really, five of them didn’t even count because they were piled on a dealership truck trailer. That counts as one vehicle! There should never be traffic in a six car situation. Never! I don’t care if Jenna Jameson is getting a mustache ride from a transgender midget on the side of the freeway. You take a gander and you move it along. You don’t creep down the road at negative speeds.

Are you some kind of auto erotic sadist or are you just suffering from the world’s worst depth-perception problem EVER? I do not understand what your deal is.

Did you once fail to break in time and annihilate a crossing guard and half the student body of an elementary school? Did your antenna spear some poor fifth grader, the Jack in the Box head bobbing out the other side of his gored neck? If so, I apologize for screaming at you. I could see how that would be pretty upsetting. I’d probably have some residual PTSD myself if I’d witnessed your classic old-person-confusing-the-gas-for-the-brake scenario; good God, it must’ve looked so much worse through your crazy bifocals, especially if they were those giant, black cataract sunglasses. You know that shit has some 3-D action going on. Why else would the elderly walk around feeling up walls in those things?

So I guess, maybe, I shouldn’t've stuck my head out the window and shrieked all the various things I would’ve liked to do to your car if I’d had a canon and an unlimited supply of bowling balls. That was wrong.

Maybe you read that a driver should leave room to flee in case a carjacker Hamburglars up to your window. But I gotta warn ya, Grandma, the combination of your paranoia and my road rage is more dangerous than any thug’s attempt to hijack your sweet ride.

What I’m trying to say is, I know it was wrong of me to let out howls of maniacal laughter as I imagined what I’d do to you if I had access to a monster truck, specifically the Gravedigger, as featured on the recent episode of The Tonight Show with Conan O’ Brian where the driver obliterated the world’s largest pumpkin.

Thinking about revving that super-powered engine untill your Rascal shook loose from your trunk apparatus made me giddy, but not nearly as giddy as imagining slamming the beast into reverse then charging forward, launching over your felled motorized cart, and landing on top of the roof of your car.

I feel guilty for thinking these thoughts and I need you to know I would never injure your person – only your car. But I guess you have no idea any of this happened anyway…because you were missing your HEAD!

Perhaps I should’ve addressed this to the owners of the presumably nearby Sleepy Hollow Nursing Home. If you’re reading this, will you please invest in a shuttle service for your residents before I invest in a hood-mounted paintball gun for my car? Fantastic. Thanks so much.

Anxiety Hell: Is hiding out in the hermit lair, challenging herself to a Raisinette-eating competition. She is winning.

Two hours later…

Anxiety Hell: Is digging out a deep wedgie while watching a rerun of the A-Team. She is secretly thinking Murdock is the hottest cast member, though in a post-apocolyptic emergency situation she would consider procreating with First Lieutenant Templeton “Faceman” Peck. It occurs to her that he’d probably bring some useful survival skills to the table, what with his being a Lieutenant and all.

Later that day…

Anxiety Hell: Is squinting through the peephole at the creepy FedEx dude, but she will not open the door because she has misplaced her rape whistle. Okay, if she is to be honest in her updates, misplaced is incorrect; the manager of a CVS pharmacy confiscated her rape whistle.

Apparently there are noise pollution laws she was unaware of. She was more unaware that a citizen is not allowed to seek justice when a stranger has grabbed the last can of Nair just as she was reaching for it. She is still convinced it’s Grandma’s fault her hearing aid was turned up all the way at the time.  

Two milliseconds later…

Anxiety Hell: Is continuing to engage the FedEx man in a one-eyed staring contest, separated only by the peephole in her deadbolted front door.

Anxiety Hell: Is watching the FedEx guy storm down the stairs and out to his truck. She starts to congratulate herself on winning this particular staring contest, but as she watches him climb into his big white truck, she recalls traumatic childhood memories involving the ice cream man. She is no longer high-fiving herself.

Anxiety Hell: Is continuing to avoid human contact.

Anxiety Hell: Is going pee for the four-thousandth time today. She is contemplating asking her doctor about what Flomax can do for her.

Anxiety Hell: Is engaging in various forms of passive aggression that may or may not involve slipping slabs of raw Halibut through the sunroof of her neighbor’s car.

Anxiety Hell: Is growing wary of leopards. She is also reconsidering her stance on the duckbilled platypus. She decides that any animal with “pus” in its name seems likely to pass on flu-like symptoms. She mistrusts their claims that they are mammals.

Three hours later…

Anxiety Hell: Is having a panic attack at the gym after she catches a glimpse of her bootang in the crazy fun house mirrors 24 Hour Fitness has installed on every square inch of available wall space.

30 seconds later…

Anxiety Hell: Is angry that her sweat patterns never look sexy like the shirtless dudes’ hoopin’ it up in those old BodMan fragrance commercials. She does not understand why it always looks like she’s confused a water buffalo for a ThighMaster when she works out. She is considering bitchslapping the chick on the treadmill next to her who is only sweating in a delicate henna pattern around her wrists even though she just ran 72 miles.

Anxiety Hell: Is home again. She is eating more Raisinettes, watching more A-Team. She is still wary of the platypus.

12 hours later…

Anxiety Hell: Is digesting Raisinettes and worrying about what she wrote on Facebook.