Caffeinated writings are so much better. I don’t know if it’s the writing or the drinking that’s better, but something definitely is. I’ve decided to use caffeine as god intended: when I haven’t written anything of value for a while, I pop a dose, and see what flies. I can’t promise you anything. I haven’t said anything in about a week now, but I’m trying. I’m struggling to find something to write. I’m excited about today. I finished a presentation to a big group, and Doolies is coming. I can’t wait to see her.

The thing about…what? I want to say something, but there’s nothing coming out. I will continue to type and try to find something. How can something keep away from me? What is this something that I’m talking about? Shouldn’t I be looking for something instead of writing about something, or is that nothing? This is all very confusing.

The non-angry driver: why do you have to get angry when you drive? We have the calm man, he watches everything around him and comments on it. I want the anger. Where is the emotions How are you going to share emotions? If this person is stone, why do we want to care about it? Even better:

Two and Eleven

My hands are at two and eleven. I have pretty fingernails. I painted them orange this past weekend. The pinky nail broke, though. I used the stick-on replacement. Do you know the one? It comes with a small bag of glue, two applicants, and two fake nails. It glues on to the end of the real nail and you don’t have to worry about it falling off. You file the stick-on as your regular nail grows out. I sometimes forget which of my nails are real. It’s that good. We’re not moving very fast tonight, are we? There’s lots of traffic. Zoom, zoom, zoom, I say. I like that commercial. It’s the one with the small boy. I think he’s advertising for a car commercial. The little boy is a cutey. The car is cute too, a Mazda or Honda or Mercedes, or something like that. I get confused with all the different car brands out there. It takes enough of my mind to remember what I drive. It’s a blue Buick. It has four doors.

I try to leave plenty of space on all sides of my car. It’s better to be safe than sorry. That’s what my mother always used to say. She’s not saying much anymore. I try to visit her, but she barely recognizes me. She scares me. Don’t you think that’s funny? She’s completely helpless lying in bed. They tell me they have to turn her over every other day to avoid sores on her ass. Even now, I have trouble even saying hi to her. I swear on some days she looks at me and I know she sees me. The doctors told me that she doesn’t. But I know my mother. She’s a fighter. She’s trying to tell me something. I sit next to her bed and watch her from the corner of my eye. She talks in gibberish but she’s still there. She’s watching me. She scares me.

Oh my, listen to the language on that one. You think he’s in a speed derby. “Move along, Mr. Foul Mouth!” We’re all going to get to where we’re going eventually. What’s the rush? I try to get to the left lane as soon as possible. I want to avoid any trouble. All that changing lanes and merging, it’s not for me. I drive straight. My hands on two and eleven, that’s how you keep control of the car. My mother told me that when she taught me to drive. Look around, she said. But don’t do anything sudden. The other people will be better drivers, let them respond to you. I’m constantly looking in my mirrors. Left, right, rearview, left, right, rearview, you have to keep moving your head. When my neck gets sore, I roll my eyes. It’s funny how far you can roll your eyes. My eyes feel like they’re on a rubber band, and if I roll them too far, they snap back.

Hold on a second. My phone is ringing. I tried those headset thingies, but they were too complicated. I barely know how to turn on and off the phone. How am I supposed to know where to plug in the plug thingy? Oh, it’s my sister. “Yes, dear, I’m driving now. No. It’s a fine time to talk. Lots of traffic today, but I’ve left plenty of room in front of me. No, I’m not in a rush. It’s just me in the car. Rain. I can’t believe she would say that! Yes. That’s the radio in the back. It’s a commercial. Yes, I still listen to 93.5. Great. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Uh huh. Yours? Okay, dear. Bye.”

I don’t know what I did before they invented the phone in the car. It gets boring driving around with nobody to talk with. I spend probably half my time on the phone while driving. It’s much more entertaining. I used to talk to my psychic when I drove, but I went away from that. I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. It’s important to listen to all of her words. They don’t tell you that, but I figured it out the hard way. The psychic is like those oracles from Ancient Rome. Do you know about them? They’re very cryptic. They might say something but mean something completely different. You have to read the fine print. When I talk to her at home, I write down what she says. That way I can really think about it. It’s like a bible study. We spend hours deciphering a single sentence from the bible. When we figure out the meaning, it’s a revelation. Like god is talking to us through his ancient book. We thank god for it. There’s so much truth in that book. I’m not comparing my psychic to Jesus’ teaching. It’s just that you have to evaluate it the same way. There are always cryptic messages inside it.

I’m a friendly driver. There aren’t enough friendly drivers on the road. I don’t usually say things like that. I’ll let anyone in. Sure. I’ll slow down for them if they’re merging on the road. Don’t even get me started on four-way stop signs! I sit there for fifteen minutes sometimes. It’s not as if I’m not in a hurry. I always have places to go. My mother always said better safe than sorry. She said many things. She was a smart lady. I’m sorry. She is a smart lady. She used to tell us to let him do it. Don’t worry about it, she’d say. It’s the way he is. She never left him. Even after he started beating her up. He died three years ago. I cried. My mother slapped me for being so loud during the service. But he was my dad. I guess I was okay with what he did.

At least he never hit me. I wonder why. I always expected him to and sometimes I wish he had. But he bought me gifts when he was around. I guess he deserved some sort of payment for everything he bought me. Now that I think about it, it is strange. My mother never cared what he did to us. It was mostly me. My younger sister was a fat girl. I don’t think my father liked fat girls. He was always on her to lose weight, but she just ate and ate. I thought about being fat like her, but when I started getting a little chunky, my father put a stop to that. He never hit me. He would never do that. I didn’t mind it as much when I got older. It was his way of showing his love. Some things you just have to accept, my mother taught me that too. Acceptance and forgiveness is the way of Jesus.

Did you see that guy? He was tailgating me forever, and then he gives me the finger when he passes. Some people have no manners. Does he really think he’s going to get where he’s going faster? I wonder what could be so important. I guess he probably was in a hurry. It’s hard for me to change lanes. I guess I could have tried for him, but I probably would have made it worse. It’s better if I just stay in this lane. I’m getting off in a few exits anyway. The road really opens up here. I get up to almost fifty miles per hour. When my car runs that fast, I need to pay close attention to the road. It’s hard to see what’s going on all around me when I drive too fast.

That’s my favorite song. I sing it every time it comes on the radio. They used to play it more often. Now I have to call and request it before they’ll play it. “Every man a king, every man a king. For you can be a millionaire. But there's something belonging to others.” My father liked that song. He wasn’t no millionaire. Mother and me and my sister didn’t care. I love hearing myself on the radio. I never know what to say! It usually takes a lot of waiting before they’ll put you on. My commute is long and I don’t mind waiting. My mother taught me patience. She told me patience is a virtue. I remember that well. Whenever I became too anxious, she would slap me and repeat patience is a virtue. It took me many years, but I learned. Patience is a virtue. That’s why I’m such a good driver. I’m not in a rush. Everyone around me wants to get passed, and I say let them. I learned my lessons good. Patience is a virtue, and I’ll get where I’m going when I get there.