Dear Tailgater

What’s your hurry? Late for work—a soul-crushing cubicle—death by a thousand paperclips?

I’m bound for therapy. A mood adjustment. Much assembly required.

The other day, in the Trader Joe’s lot, my Sunfire wouldn’t start. Had a telling conversation with my mechanic.

“This is the fifth time in twenty-seven months I’ve been towed here. Am I doing something wrong?”

Talk about a guilt trip.

I’m fine, he says. All taken care of.

“It was the starter. We reassembled it. Any questions?”

He charges less than my psychiatrist.

At night I dream of a blog post. Why do I automatically blame myself for everything? Original sin—the whole God-is-dead business? That’s on me. An asteroid’s nearing earth? My bad.

“The Fault in My Car.”

Don’t know how to start it.

So I’m writing, dear tailgater, because we’re so close now.

Ease up a little. I promise we’ll make the light.

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