My ever so silent, battery powered electric toy offers me solace after a hard day’s work and makes me smile more than expensive cologne.
“Take me! Take me!” Natalya cried repeatedly, her long legs splayed on top of mine, her firm loins girding for gratification.
I can log up to three hours sitting in the driver’s seat per weekday commute. If I was doing the math, that’d surely add up to quite a bit of time holding a steering wheel.
One time my mom and I got into a car accident of sorts. It wasn’t particularly violent or dramatic, it was just bizarre and one of those things after which you think, “Well, how often does that happen to a person, and what if, what if, what if?”
n London, our cabbie cheerfully let us pile into his car and knew exactly where to take us without instructions. He was chatty and interested in our background. Unprompted, he gave us recommendations for restaurants that serve turkey because he knew the next day was Thanksgiving in America. I assumed this was one of the exceptional cab drivers you can occasionally come across in all cities and didn’t think of it again.
By the time you reach Arizona, you’ll probably smell like a mix of Burger King, coffee, peanut butter crackers, and sweat. You’ll have your hair tied at the top of your head, your makeup rubbed off, and your two-day old clothes stuck to your body.
This is going to sound self-congratulatory, but I think I deserve a pat on the back for having a superior vehicular aptitude.
Americans drive a lot. In fact, we drive 2.9 trillion miles a year on average. To put this astronomical number into perspective, that’s equal to over 320 round trips to Pluto!
Not your typical fender-bender.
I eat out of paper bags and Styrofoam containers.