An open letter to the squirrel that I hit today while riding my mo-ped

Dear Mr Squirrel,
What the eff? I obviously feel a serious amount of guilt about this horrid incident every time I replay it in my mind, which I've been doing compulsively. But the conclusion that I keep drawing, the conclusion that my rational brain thinks is correct*, is that this debacle is 100% your fault. I mean, I couldn't have been going more than 20, ok, 25 miles per hour. And it was just you and me on that big, two-lane road. And it's not like you didn't see me from at least a block away. I saw you lock eyes with me, saw you size up the width of my front tire, and saw you run directly for that five-inch-wide death zone with the speed and precision of a professional football player. I even sent you super intense psychic messages saying, "Keep your distance, squirrel, for I am riding a murder machine!". But nah. You dove under my tire, and in an instant were transformed from a spry, animated creature into a dull thud accompanied by a slight bump under my seat. Bad call, bro. And I'm supposed to feel guilty about this? I guess that, even when dealing with woodland beasts, this is a world of double standards and undying angst. Like Odysseus, I am cursed to walk (scoot) the Earth as an eternal bringer and bearer of pain. I'm gonna go listen to Bright Eyes and burn myself with the metal tip of a lighter while trying to muffle my sobbing so mom won't hear me over the sounds of the season finale of House. Thanks for nothing, squirrel!

*My emotional brain, however, has moped about this out of deep despair for the last twelve hours. (Get it? Moped? Mo-ped? I am clever)