Weird epiphany.

You know how we read those statistics that we spend days out off the year doing _____, or we eat _______ pounds of something every year, and it's sort of a disturbing statistic? Like something that sounds like a LOT; like, "Holy hell, I drank 24 gallons of Beer last year? I'm like... certain I didn't drink 24 gallons of milk last year, even though now it sounds like I should have... I should drink more milk."

I had one of those, but it was like, personalized. Like there was a timer of how often you did something. You. Like ONLY you.

I just realized approximately how much T.V. I watched in the last year-and-a-month (this includes watching movies that were academic pursuits, like getting through "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" or suffering petulantly for weeks through "Hello, Dolly!" (a particularly unpleasant three weeks, if I recall...) or reading books while the TV screen was on and paused...)

A little over a month. A month! By my calculation, ignoring the fact that sometimes the TV is on but muted during commercials when I'm doing something else, or when I pause the DVR to let the show catch up with commercials... and, you know... those times I pass out with the TV on...

Not only have I spent in excess of a month's worth of time in my place...(which is unnerving as it is...) but I have spent in excess of that usually conscious and with the TV on as some sort of amusement or background.

How do I know this? The lightbulb on my projector read 803 hours. It's only been installed since early July, '07.

Do the math.

Yikes.

An Open Letter to Every Driver I Encountered On My Way Home Today:

Dear Every Driver:

It's rare that I get dismissed from work at 5:00 p.m. Unheard of, really. It was like fuckin' Christmas in August, and you bet your sweet ass I wanted to be Larry Leadfoot on my drive home, regardless of whatever squalls were going on. Fay-Schmay.

Enter you.

Preventing me from making my way home quickly.

I get that you're not used to driving a vehicle that's not a draycart, and I understand that you're comfortable driving at speeds of 10 miles per hour.

But here's the thing: I'm not. And we have these things in America called "lanes" varying from slowest (the right) where you belong, to fastest (left) where I belong, and where you definitely do not belong.

Yes, it's rainy. Yes, it's puddly. Yeah, it's a goddamn tropical storm, and yes, I could hydroplane into a palm tree and die, but that's my fuckin' prerogative, and anyway, it's not going to happen.

You don't belong in the left lane, with your flashers on, if you're going 10 miles an hour. You don't belong there if you're going 40 miles per hour. I'll put it to you this way: if your flashers are on, you don't deserve to be in the left lane, EVER.

So get the fuck off the roads, and if you must be on the roads, get the fuck out of my way, and most certainly, stop going the exact same speed as the two other jerks in the center and right lanes. If it were up to me, I would confiscate each and every one of your licenses and your automobiles, and who knows? When I'm president of the World, I just may do that.

In the interim, you have no business being on the roads when it's rainy -- you're a hazard, and I hope you burn in Hell. Idiots.

With love,

SuperBee.