Teh Commute on a day with an apocalyptic sundown.
This is a picture I took in last week's big traffic jam. Which, it turned out, was just the warm up.
Two. F*cking. Hours. Thats how long my forty minute commute home took today. Most of it trapped in a concrete-lined section of the 'pike with no breakdown lane or exits. And my gas light went on. That little, glowy tank of doom. I seriously longed to drive straight into the retaining wall.
Please give me back my life.
I know, I know. The girl who didn't start driving till her thirties. Who never seemed to mind how long it took her to get around in her old network of subway, bus, train, cab and feets. But I was in motion, people!
What's that? You say most Americans enter this hell sometime in their twenties, and never leave it till their sixties? You don't want to hear about how for the last seven years I had a commute of twenty minutes by train? I will appeal to a higher power.
Oh merciful heavens, hear my cry! Your child mourns in the dark valley of the Turnpike, and wails upon the stones of 128, and gnashes her teeth and heaps ashes upon her head when she hath the folly to attempt Route 9 as an alternate route. Oh, maketh my lane to clear, oh Lord! Bless me who am righteous in my fuel-efficient Rav4 av and smite my neighbors in their SUVs. Bring me to the green and pleasant lands of southwest Boston in omewhat under an hour, and I shall lift up my voice in your praise and sacrifice an NPR commentator to your glory! The one whose voice is driving me mad right now.
