It's a Walk sign.
I'm running within the white painted lines that signify where a pedestrian should cross when they're signaled to.
And a European sports car completely runs the corner without slowing down, let alone stopping.
That is until the leather sole of my right booted foot goes out from under me. Like the ol' banana peel slip. And I'm an inch from the front wheel of a BMW driven by a Botoxed Bitch in her 50's.
I'm on the ground.
I quickly pull myself up with a
WHAT THE F*CK LADY, IT'S A F*CKIN' WALK SIGN, YOU C*NT!
She mouthed something nasty--because her face was nasty, Botox or not--behind the safety of her window as I continued running across the street.
Bitch almost went to court and paid for my future Botox. She's lucky I'm late for a show.