| At the 55 I go south instead
of north and don't realize it until I'm in fucking Newport Beach. Where the
freeway ends. Where there's no U-turn until High Street but I make one anyway and
it doesn't save me time because I don't have any. I go north on the 55 and concentrate so I don't miss the 405, but it doesn't matter because traffic is moving six miles an hour. The woman next to me is reading while she drives. I drive close to her so she'll hit me. I thought a job would make me so happy. But I am not happy. I need a new car. I need a car with that motivational new-car smell. I need a car that the car wash won't blow off when I drive in. I cross the line to be behind a BMW. White. I tell myself BMWs are very '80s and I'm too cool to drive this BMW. In fact, I'm too cool to look at this BMW because the guy who's driving has a button-down pin-striped shirt that I'm sure he has not taken off since the '80s. But his car... If only he wasn't in it. The next three BMWs are in the carpool lane which must mean that three-fourths of today's BMW drivers are getting fucked regularly because how else could you drive with someone for that long? I remind myself that I will never live alone if I can't hold down a job.
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