(no subject)
Response to Monday's Prompt:
I am mad at the world today.
The car is hot, my uniform is making me sweat so that my legs stick to my pants and my hair to my neck and I am agitated. I am driving too fast. Traffic has just slowed to it's inevitable crawl, a rolling stream of tail lights and heat waves posing as a freeway. There are commercials on every station. I am just so damn frustrated, and my fingers can't grip the wheel any tighter, this dam can't be held any longer. Five dollars. Five fucking dollars today. I spent more on gas to get to work than I made. I see his meaty hand drop change on the table and I hit the brakes. If I have to stop for one more light I might cry.
I look up and read:
Let's leave God out of this. Anything helps.
The flood is released and I am weeping, shaking, mad at myself. I roll the window down and as I hand you the bill you are smiling and thanking me. You say "You are beautiful, child" and I wonder if you are referring to my tears. I drive away too ashamed to say anything for fear I may tell you, a perfect stranger, the truth.
(Would it be roll the window down or roll down the window? I can't think today. I need some help with this sloppy ending!)
Cut for length and usage of the f-bomb. (only once!) This is also a true story. I always wanted to write about it but never did.
I am mad at the world today.
The car is hot, my uniform is making me sweat so that my legs stick to my pants and my hair to my neck and I am agitated. I am driving too fast. Traffic has just slowed to it's inevitable crawl, a rolling stream of tail lights and heat waves posing as a freeway. There are commercials on every station. I am just so damn frustrated, and my fingers can't grip the wheel any tighter, this dam can't be held any longer. Five dollars. Five fucking dollars today. I spent more on gas to get to work than I made. I see his meaty hand drop change on the table and I hit the brakes. If I have to stop for one more light I might cry.
I look up and read:
Let's leave God out of this. Anything helps.
The flood is released and I am weeping, shaking, mad at myself. I roll the window down and as I hand you the bill you are smiling and thanking me. You say "You are beautiful, child" and I wonder if you are referring to my tears. I drive away too ashamed to say anything for fear I may tell you, a perfect stranger, the truth.
(Would it be roll the window down or roll down the window? I can't think today. I need some help with this sloppy ending!)
Cut for length and usage of the f-bomb. (only once!) This is also a true story. I always wanted to write about it but never did.