The great thing about having my own opinion column is the fact that I can pretty much pick my own topic and say whatever the hell I feel like saying and get away with it.

After all, it is my opinion, right?

This past week, two things kept coming up repeatedly until I wanted to grab a crowbar and start beating people with it.

First of all, what is it with people who drive 35 mph on the fast lane of the freeway during rush hour when I am trying to get to a class I am already 20 minutes late to?

Don’t they get it?

When everybody zooming past them is doing at least 65 and giving them the one-fingered salute, you might imagine these people would eventually get a clue and decide to either speed up or move over and let us by.

But, no. Instead, they continue to plod along like slugs on a cold winter’s day, blocking traffic and creating a bigger jam than a monster sized PB&J sandwich.

My Granny on Nyquil drives faster.

People like that need to have their driver’s licenses taken away and have a bus pass permanently tattooed to their foreheads.

The other thing that has been chafing my hide this past week is all the telephone calls from my ex-girlfriend.

Ok, granted we are still the best of friends.

She knows me better than I know myself sometimes and we still tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets.

Sure, we talk about whom we go out with and gossip about people we don’t like.

We are each other’s default date and I always have a victim to try out my latest culinary disaster on.

That is what best friends are for.

But absolutely, positively, totally and completely the last thing I want to hear is how great she and her new boyfriend are doing.

I don’t want to hear about how sensitive and caring the guy is.

I don’t care if he is always 15 minutes early every time he comes over.

I don’t want to hear about how he has a 401k and an IRA account.

Ok, hello…

Sure I am glad she found someone and I am ok with the fact that she is with someone else and I can deal with the fact that she isn’t with me any more.

(Did that sound obsessive?)

Just because I hope he falls down an open elevator shaft, breaks his neck, and is not found until the stench forces someone to condemn the building does not mean that I have a problem with the guy.

Give me a break, babe.