| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia

Heather readies herself for a couple hundred pounds of throbbing steel between her thighs.
October 7, 2003.
The horrible thing about car accidents, is that no matter how much your day sucks because you're waiting in traffic, someone else's day is sucking SO much more.

I think we're still in New Jersey. A charming state that was once described to me as "the place where they make farts". The place where the neon construction signs on the sides of the roads are permanent structures.

The interstate has been shifting regularly between 4 and 1 lanes, with speed changes from 65 to 30. The pattern of slowing and speeding, the pulsing and sliding of so many energetic bodies - it should be sexual, or at least entertaining. But it's just painful. Emergency vehicles add their own flavour, with flashing reds and strobes and probes of light. Yeah, somewhere ahead of this blockade of 1am traffic, filled with tired truckers and late-night wanderers, there's someone having a really bad day indeed.

The red flashes flatter Heather, but, you can't wax too poetic while sitting in traffic, waiting for movement. Perhaps a poor choice of words, Heather needs to peeeee!

And magically, movement comes. There must be official direction ahead or something. Everyone's switching lanes, everyone's moving, and the honking begins.

"And whoever's honking needs to be fucking shot."
I agree with Heather on this one. I do think traffic officials should be issued LAWs or something. Something powerful enough to thoroughly disintegrate the plastic and steel of an offending mini-van. Or in this case, the white Celica next car over. Man, L.A. and legality aside, I need a gun.
And if God doesn't understand, He can drive in New Jersey post-construction, post-accident, asshole laden traffic.

Assholes and potholes. There's a song in there somewhere.

A lot of travellers on the road. South Carolina, Ontario... another Marylander in front of us. REPRESENT!

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