You spot a gap, little man yells “now!”—stupid foot slams gas. Car lunges, bubble 360 knowing implodes, horns scream. That foot accelerates when waiting is sanity, pushing into shrinking space. Purple Line vanishes under rush; eyes lock on drama, not gaps. Feet should love brakes—hover light, cover the pedal, gas only when the path opens. I’ve seen this habit end: rush-hour driver guns it, clips a mirror, spins into a guardrail, chain reaction piles four cars. Long nose swings wider in panic. Rock & roll check skipped for speed. One bad input and metal meets metal. Highways forgive throttle addiction never. Decide: retrain that foot to wait or let it drag you into a wreck. COOPER calls the addiction raw.
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