two thousand and nine
next year, it will be twenty-ten. and that sounds more like an eye examination outcome than a year in which to live, fruitfully, cherishing the things you hold dear, cultivating a life greater than you imagined in your sleep one june evening years and years ago. the year certainly will be absent hovering vehicles (as we'd been promised in the eighties and nineties), something of a blessing considering that the maniacs already on the road (born in nineteen ninety-two!) have issue enough with parking, signaling and maneuvering gracefully, efficiently and politely.
i suppose there is nothing polite, however, when it comes to driving.
you sit in place and move your least appreciated extremities (most of us only use one because we have automatic transmissions), strapped into a steel and polypropylene carcass, your ass gratefully humming to the tunes coming through the audio player (there are so many choices these days--mine? the radio.).
everyone complains about gas prices, about scholarships, and then there are the sales at the local outlet malls. they don't last long enough, or our high sense of fashion limits us to the items that never make it to the outlet anyway. things worth bitching about, spending minutes a day (hours a month, and days a year) becoming altogether subhuman for the sake of, i presume, relieving stress. but that stress can only be manifest in other ways, right?
like when you drive. you speed, and strive to enjoy the fuck out of it. maybe you smoke a cigarette, and that is quantifiable, to some extent. some of us are driving others, though, and the action of release--this method of managing one more thing you cannot seemingly handle--endangers the bodies surrounding your environ. the car is a capsule whose destination might be death....
it might be school. it might be the workplace you so loathe, love, or bear an indifference towards because some people there are bffls, while others are total cunts, replete with toxic fumes. if you deal in customer service, it can be extra special sauce.
what a time to live.
i suppose there is nothing polite, however, when it comes to driving.
you sit in place and move your least appreciated extremities (most of us only use one because we have automatic transmissions), strapped into a steel and polypropylene carcass, your ass gratefully humming to the tunes coming through the audio player (there are so many choices these days--mine? the radio.).
everyone complains about gas prices, about scholarships, and then there are the sales at the local outlet malls. they don't last long enough, or our high sense of fashion limits us to the items that never make it to the outlet anyway. things worth bitching about, spending minutes a day (hours a month, and days a year) becoming altogether subhuman for the sake of, i presume, relieving stress. but that stress can only be manifest in other ways, right?
like when you drive. you speed, and strive to enjoy the fuck out of it. maybe you smoke a cigarette, and that is quantifiable, to some extent. some of us are driving others, though, and the action of release--this method of managing one more thing you cannot seemingly handle--endangers the bodies surrounding your environ. the car is a capsule whose destination might be death....
it might be school. it might be the workplace you so loathe, love, or bear an indifference towards because some people there are bffls, while others are total cunts, replete with toxic fumes. if you deal in customer service, it can be extra special sauce.
what a time to live.