In strong favor of burning my W-2.
The endless war waged on the highway; Bumper-to-bumper, metal grinding, name-calling, middle-finger fucking, way to start the day. Loud engines, louder people with big and nasty faces ready at any moment to rip mouth to the ass of any human being behind the wheel.
Drivers from all parts near southern San Diego jump early on metal tide, taking the surf roughly forty miles in no-time. Partly due to the fact that the speed limit is determined by the perpetrator and the course is determined by the hand of god and the fifty-fifty chance at death.
Speeders, bikers, and racecar drivers heave and ho through the constantly changing traffic patterns. Changing lanes with haste and bravery, only to be found miles ahead squashed like a bug by the opposite in nature they challenge; The hyper unaware teenage driver.
Throughout the Fifteen South, life, liberty, and the pursuit of making this month’s rent come to a crashing halt for the over zealous types and adrenaline addicts.
So does this transportation, blood-thirsty fever junked up in every west coaster’s mind rival some kind of equally just and true force? The idea of gangs of White Knights ready to enforce law and spit and slay those who do such a disservice to tax-paying California citizens? The answers lie in the eyes of the beholder, unfortunately, with any case involving the California Penal Code of Justice. Any man could easily say that the gold medal Olympiad for traffic offenses goes to speeding; Yet any time
Mailman brought the advertisements today. Between the ruck is paperwork from the state government, telling me I've gone way too fast. Worded so delicately, in the case I stick a straight face through reading the shit. Two hundred and twenty dollars for driving under the cameras, stuck above the lane free of the five-in-the-afternoon clutter, the one you’ve got to pay for.
And I’m guessing that this money I owe the IRS is for the speeding.
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