Fast cars and fine ass/ these things will pass
Answering the phone against better judgment at 4:00 am. “How about a game of Jenga?” a girl’s voice says. “Well, it is 4:00 and I’m not exactly—” I am cut off at this point and random points of derision are inserted about my dedication to the game of Jenga. I’ve heard a lot more crushing things, I have to admit. But I do not hang up without asserting that I am in fact the Jenga Champion, which may well be going on my resume.


Driving home. No one is on the road right now, but I’m pretty much sure that a car is going to come out of the ether, crushing and killing me swiftly for not wearing my safety belt. I have received a ticket for this very same thing earlier in the day, while driving home on a lunch break. “Well, I was kind of in a hurry,” I tell the police officer, before inserting the nugget of wisdom which has been inhibiting not only my safety belt-wearing but a whole bunch of other activities as well: “My coat is just too big.” The officer is not impressed with this line of reasoning, dismisses herself, goes back to the car to write a ticket. “You can appear at the following court to protest the ticket,” she tells me. “Have a nice day.”

Throwing off the cloak of rationality which would typically have me cursing myself, cursing the fact that I have a job at all to come home from on a lunch break, I have decided to take another route. Instead, I have decided to process this as a symbol of good fortune, something that may in fact change my criminally negligent nature of not wearing the safety belt while there are so many other careless drivers on the road. Especially at this hour. There is nothing good that can come of it. There is probably a 70% possibility that some fraternity brother, traversing the road at way too quickly a speed after 5 keg stands is going to bring my life to an abrupt end. It can happen at any moment, and especially in a town like this, which has been nationally recognized for its revelry in major publications. What this all broils down to is that bars are typically open later here than in other cities and states around the nation, and thus the possibilities for nightlife options are innumerably greater when you have longer to hang out for. Or at least that’s my deduction. But it is after hours now, and when you calculate in the fact that the public transit here in pretty much non-existent, it really just does not look good on paper.

Buckling up then, over the big coat, constricting me in a way that definitely inhibits any and all ability to maneuver, as well as the ability to comfortably breathe. Will it be fast? I wonder. And how will it happen? All of the degredations I’ve had to endure through the succession of days which have lead me to this specific moment. Oh, man, what a rip-off it’s all going to be, I think. And then suddenly, it all becomes clear, there is only one thing to do at the moment, and I find myself turning in the direction of the Jenga house. Because it's totally on, if it doesn’t fall apart first.