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Apr. 6th, 2004 03:38 pmSaturday morning.
There are so many clouds hanging in the sky that it's as if a bleak, cotton blanket has been stretched across the horizon. You know the kind. Some unidentifable colour faded from too many washings, fuzzy nubs poking crazily up at you and sticking to your hands and clothes. The worst blanket in the pile, the one you always avoid unless given no choice. That's what is currently hanging in the air, blotting out the sun.
The Engineer and I are driving down Route 70, on our way to a state forest for a camping trip with our friends. Having stayed up a large portion of the night before eating steak, drinking wine, and watching horror movies, I occasionally blink blearily at him and ask him to repeat himself when he says something to me.
A car is putt-putting in front of us, taking its goddamn time. The Engineer curses and switches to the next lane. As we begin to pass it, I spot a multitude of bumper stickers plastered all over the back and sides of the vehicle. Apparently, someone doesn't realize where "bumper" stickers are meant to be placed. Overtaking the snaily car, I see what messages its driver wishes to impart to the rest of the world. They're all pro-life, anti-abortion.
The driver is hunched over the steering wheel, hands placed at one and eleven o'clock. Sour mouth primly puckered like a cat's asshole. Have you ever noticed that the people who are against abortion are the ones you wouldn't want to fuck in the first place?! George Carlin gleefully shouts in my brain.
Kneeling up in my seat as we came to a red light, I turn around and lean over the headrest to shoot the old man a double deuce, which causes him to glare at me and The Engineer to half-heartedly tell me to knock it off and play nice. The light changes and we drive off, watching a parade of cars pile up behind the unhappy old man and his vehicular dogma.
There are so many clouds hanging in the sky that it's as if a bleak, cotton blanket has been stretched across the horizon. You know the kind. Some unidentifable colour faded from too many washings, fuzzy nubs poking crazily up at you and sticking to your hands and clothes. The worst blanket in the pile, the one you always avoid unless given no choice. That's what is currently hanging in the air, blotting out the sun.
The Engineer and I are driving down Route 70, on our way to a state forest for a camping trip with our friends. Having stayed up a large portion of the night before eating steak, drinking wine, and watching horror movies, I occasionally blink blearily at him and ask him to repeat himself when he says something to me.
A car is putt-putting in front of us, taking its goddamn time. The Engineer curses and switches to the next lane. As we begin to pass it, I spot a multitude of bumper stickers plastered all over the back and sides of the vehicle. Apparently, someone doesn't realize where "bumper" stickers are meant to be placed. Overtaking the snaily car, I see what messages its driver wishes to impart to the rest of the world. They're all pro-life, anti-abortion.
The driver is hunched over the steering wheel, hands placed at one and eleven o'clock. Sour mouth primly puckered like a cat's asshole. Have you ever noticed that the people who are against abortion are the ones you wouldn't want to fuck in the first place?! George Carlin gleefully shouts in my brain.
Kneeling up in my seat as we came to a red light, I turn around and lean over the headrest to shoot the old man a double deuce, which causes him to glare at me and The Engineer to half-heartedly tell me to knock it off and play nice. The light changes and we drive off, watching a parade of cars pile up behind the unhappy old man and his vehicular dogma.