In my quest to become reacquainted with the road, I climbed into a car with Flatulent Mike (hereafter, "FM") for the second time this month.Though FM refrained from farting (he burped, but one time) and I--anticipating my emotional meltdown upon hitting highways, turnpikes, thruways or freeways--brought along my mother for emotional support, the experience was, on the whole, a bad one for several reasons. The first and foremost of these reasons is that I've been rather heavy-harted of late, so everyday things have become trying and annoying. But that's a whole other blog entry.
I'm still feeling wretchedly and would much rather sleep than blog about the never-ending (and eventually dizzying) Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn circuit I had to endure for what felt like HOURS; or FM's distracting habit of making future appointments on his cell phone while he's "instructing"--he was on the phone for probably 45 minutes of my 1 hour lesson; or how the student who picked us up not only drove like she had a busted inner ear but also, upon discovering that my mother had come along for emotional support, felt compelled to share the following profound words with us:
"If you have skill you have a dollar but no emotional support."
The silence hadn't quite settled in the car before FM decided to impart his own wisdom about emotional support to us:
"If you throw a party, everyone comes. If you have work, no one comes."
He should've just farted and kept his mouth shut.
I didn't end up on any highways, turnpikes, thruways or freeways but I did drop off Ms. driver-savant (I was shocked, SHOCKED to discover that this was her 6th lesson! She's so gonna fail her road test!) at the movies.
Driving fuckin' blows.