I am seriously considering becoming one of those people who I make fun of because they don’t drive. I just can’t stand the stress of the roads anymore. Every time someone changes lanes I tense up, thinking they’re going to change two at a time and ram into me. Tonight I was driving down 13th Street and three people dressed in black darted into the road at different intervals. In my mind I imagined myself reliving the movie, “Stuck” (worst movie ever – don’t watch it).
I was behind first a high driver and then a drunk driver on the drive home from work (Tuesday night @ 9:15 – time to party!) A car that was all bashed in cut me off and I changed lanes figuring I didn’t want to be around any car that was so banged up, because obviously they can’t drive. My car is just as judgmental about who to hang with as I am. So I might become one of those bus riders or put an ad on Craigslist for a carpool, because I’m really beginning to dread it. I would love to have a driver like Mr. Big does.
As much as I’d like to have a driver, I think I would rather have a chef. It’s a hard pick: really any servant-type position would appeal to me to have one. A personal assistant (bitch) would be outstanding. Things like this is why I need to be rich. Yet alas, I live in Omaha, NE in an apartment complex that refuses to clean up their dead birds. One day perhaps, one day.