saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am seven years old. In car years.
I have taken to listening to books on CD while driving. I realized that with all of the time I spend driving around from work to school to home to my daughter�s school, it would be a perfect time to indulge in some �reading� I might otherwise never get around to. Of course, considering how much time I spend in the car, I could also cut my legs off and attach a vehicle directly to my pelvis, but I haven�t quite sorted out how that would work when I have to go to the bathroom.
I�ll get back to you on that.
I�ve realized that I tend to listen to the books on CD most often when I�m driving on the freeway. I�ll even purposely switch CDs from my music to a book when I know I have some freeway driving to do in the near future. This is because when listening to my music, I will often discover that it has hypnotized me into driving nearly 100 mph, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and with the wind force preparing to rip my hood right off of the car.
That reminds me. Wait. No. I�ll come back to that.
Sometimes, while driving, I�ll also find myself singing loudly, almost maniacally, even if there are no lyrics to sing along with (as is often the case with the music I listen to). I�m starting to think, from the startled looks I have gotten from drivers around me, that I must also look rather strange. Maybe my pupils have gone swirly and red. Of course, this is only from a glimpse other drivers catch of me as I roar by. Maybe they just think I�m a mach truck. On fire. Sonic boom. Driver cackling like a lunatic.
As those mach truck drivers do. Assholes.
See, I�m not that great of a driver to begin with. My sister has often told me that she knows driving conditions are bad when I put one whole hand on the wheel. They�re really bad if I use both hands.
I drive too fast. I yell at people too much. I swerve erratically to get out from behind those who are not trying to achieve liftoff like I am.
Let�s face it. I�ve faced it. Now let�s do it together:
I�m a complete assface driver.
There are only two things that I have found that will make me drive like a sane, logical human being. One is when my daughter is in the car with me. And the other is when I am listening to books on CD. Or, more specifically, when I am not listening to my music.
At one point in my life, this sort of thing � this idiotic, childish, utterly ridiculous self-centered behavior � didn�t bother me. But those were my teen and early twenties years, so that�s the way it is. I understand that everyone in that age bracket is absolutely the most interesting, important, cool person on the face of the earth. I am, however, waiting for the fabric of reality to tear wide open, create a vacuum, and cause the universe to collapse upon itself because of this widespread assumption. My only guess as to why it hasn�t happened yet is that the combined cranial vacancy of this youngish population has somehow created an uneasy balance in natural physical laws.
These are the scientific depths I plumb in my spare time. I�m also this close to proving that the voice of my aunt on my father�s side causes cancer in lab rats.
Anyway, these days I tend to be more aware of my driving etiquette. I try to keep my speed within reason. I say �cocksucking asswipe� a lot less often. And I think I�m better for it.
Or just really�really�really fucking old.
I worry about that a bit. However, I think it�s more of a perspective thing. For example, when I was younger, and I saw more mature individuals rolling their eyes and deriding my actions, I thought, �God, I�ll hate when I�m that old.� Now, from this angle, I realize that all of those people were way in the hell cooler than I could ever have imagined.
Or so I tell myself.
On top of all of this, the other day, I drove past a local high school and the marquee read, �EIGHTIES THEMED DANCE TONITE!� When the era you grew up in becomes the fodder of Halloween costumes and theme nights, you�d best get a sense of humor.
Or try to find a way to synthetically block out the reality of the aging process.
I, personally, thrive rather well on petty mockery of my fellow man.
What I was: �Give me a bottle of cheap liquor and let�s party.�
What I am: �Where the hell is the cherry in my Manhattan, Junior?�
What I was: �This is a great song! Who is it?�
What I am: �Wow. Let me guess. This is the new stuff by I Want To Be Nivek So Bad It Shows Up In My Piss Tests. Right?�
What I was: Idiotic and happy.
What I am: Older, caustic, and happy.
Oddly enough, the happy part is true.
So that�s fun.
But back to my car. Hilarious thing, my car. It doesn�t completely break down. It doesn�t really have anything that totally refuses to function. It does, however, seem to have a really good time watching me compensate for the quirks that it has developed over the years.
For example:
Problem: The visor for the driver�s seat is halfway broken, so when I pull it down and to the left to block the sun, it swings wildly as I turn corners, often hitting me in the face.
Solution: I hold the visor in place with my hand. It has become a reflex. I�ll even do it in other people�s cars now.
Problem: My trunk won�t open when I use the release lever inside the driver�s door, or with my key from the outside.
Solution: If I hit the trunk on the top, Fonzie-style, I can turn the key in the lock and get it open. Sometimes.
Problem: My driver�s side window is off track, and won�t roll up once I roll it down.
Solution: Hold the glass in place while winding up the window with the other hand, often resulting in smashing my fingers between the window and the frame.
I could go on and on like this, but I fear you�d think I was making stuff up.
You know old people: always exaggerating to get attention.
2:27 p.m. - 2003-11-19
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------