Traffic Helllllllll

Whoever started this is so dead.

I. HATE. TRAFFFFFFFFFFFIC.

It absolutely never fails. If I am the slightest bit late, there is no way in hell that I’ll catch all the green lights or that the lane I choose will be flowing quickly and steadily all the way to my destination. So I either barely make it on time, or I race in just over the clock and sweat like a thoroughbred and breathe extra heavy for twenty minutes. Now. If I am desperately late, then it absolutely never fails: There will be a fucking jam o’traffic worse than an 89-year-old-red-meat-addict’s bowel clog. Take today for instance. (No. Please. Fucking TAKE it. Today sucked 89-year-old balls.)

First, an appointment at Social Security forced me to get up out of a freaking comfortable sleep that I had been enjoying, goddammit, for three solid hours. Then, there was harassment at the Social Security office, a cheerless, thunderstorm-colored place where people are paid by me to treat me like shiiiiiiiiiit. Loved that. I made it back home in time, however, to snag a two-hour tour, a two-hour tour…wait. That was Gilligan. And it was three hours. Leave me alone. I’m damaged. And sleep-deprived.

Anyway, I did squeeze in a two-hour nap before I had to bathe in preparation for work, and I don’t know, but my decision to go to Social Security “as is” this morning probably didn’t help my cause. Folks tend not to give you what you want when you smell like a  hospice patient.

Due to technical difficulties, I did not, in fact, leave my residence until 2:42. I am supposed to be in class at 3:05-ish. The drive from Cacatown to Shitville is about 20 miles. The speed limit most of the way is 70 mph. Using the Pythagorean Theorem, determine the odds that a Subaru Outback with a fourth of a tank of gas will cover the necessary terrain to ensure that my ass will be on time for class. (Hint: Fucking zero.)

As soon as I hit the freeway, I could sense trouble. Perhaps I was tipped off by the never-ending lines of SUV’s, semis and other asshole-navigated vehicles in front of me. Or all the lights that were the bad color. (If you don’t get the reference to The Village, I applaud you for your intelligence and good taste in cinema.) Dead-stopped traffic is never, ever a good sign. After a medium cursing of God and an extra-large sweat production, the wall o’auto began to inch forward at about one-half mile per hour. This went on until September. Finally, the car cluster picked up the speed a little, and we all got confident and kicked it to 20, then 30, then 35, then…Nope. Bad-colored lights again. More stalling. More revving. More inching. Until suddenly and without warning, the whole damn mess of moving metal split off into separate lanes, all traveling at 80 mph. What the?! That is such bullshit! If there is a jam that makes me a quarter of a year late for fucking work, then there better be dead bodies, at the very least.

I just can’t stand the entire mechanism of traffic jams, especially when you get to the “clearing,” and there is no reason, no answer, no closure as to why in the bloody hell all twelve-million of us were cruising along for precious minutes at NO mph. Did someone have to pee? Did a secret sink-hole open and swallow lanes of cars and then close back in time for me to get on the interstate? Did I ever mention that I have an active imagination?

So. I did arrive almost on time today, even with the slow going on the highway and then the stupid thin girl who took up the last two faculty parking spots because she has quite an eye for straight parking and obviously reads well. I hope she went to register, and she gets all 8 AM classes. That’s when the traffic is at its gnarliest with lots of gridlocks, and it will serve her skinny ass right.