I Hate My Commute

I hate my horrible retail job. Nothing demonstrates someone’s personal journey of failure quite like fielding questions on bowel movements and acceptable penile rigidity. Working in a vitamin store blows wart encrusted horse cock. Go to college, Kids. Seriously.

Somehow, the dead end, soul leeching positions that are conveniently located near my home were all taken, so I have to commute. Few things fill me with more consistent rage than sitting in traffic, dying slowly so I can eventually arrive at a job I abhor.

If Atlanta traffic were a person, it would be a whore who fucks all your friends, gives you a scalding case of chlamydia and steals the rent money to buy her pimp heroin. Atlanta traffic is a penis hungry prostitute who loves it in the ass, and my gOD, do I hate the bitch.

Every morning, as I sit in my mobile coffin of misery, I curse my father for not decorating Mom’s hairy butt crack with his seed. Instead, he loosed me into the world, to sit in traffic. My car’s radio is broken, the A/C is temperamental, I think the transmission is starting to slip and the interior smells like fetid Egg McMuffins and stale farts.

So I’m left with nothing but my fantasies to entertain me. What I imagine is a car straight from the deathlands of the post apocalypse – a hateful demon of rusted metal and barbed wire spewing black soot as it thunders down the highway at unfathomable speed.

My carapace of destruction would be fortified like a Sherman Tank and fitted with an indestructible battering ram on the front bumper. I imagine the satisfying crunch of folding metal as my ride thunders down I-75, sending SUVs and pickup trucks skyward in a blossom of fiery death.

Commuters’ cell phone calls would end abruptly with a whoosh as gasoline ignites. Their wails of anguish will be obscured in the roar of cataclysm as giant tires pancake their flimsy vehicles. My swath of blazing ruin will stretch for miles. News helicopters will view the massacre like hovering insects. My rampage will look like the debris left from Godzilla’s vengeful footfall.

I also imagine myself hovering above the ground, granted the gift of levitation by my own incredible powers of telekinesis. Cars would sail through the air like Matchbox cars being hurled by an angry infant. They would tumble, end over end, the sound of collapsed lungs, pulverized glass and rending steel filling the polluted Atlanta air like a symphony of genocide.

My fantasy is always cut short by my arrival at the vitamin store. Time to unlock the gate, turn on the lights, activate the register and await the arrival of customers. Their placid faces search for easy answers to a lifetime of bodily neglect. They hope to reverse aging with a pill. They wish for vitality in the form of chewable vitamin c.

I hate my life.

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